Legacy
by ellerykane
Summary: How do you want to feel today? In 2041, the choice is yours. Inspired by the Divergent Trilogy, Legacy is a story of self-discovery, first love, and friendship... Legacy asks its readers: Is it possible to let go of the past? Can we forgive the devastation of others? And how do we go on after loss? Note: You can also follow Legacy on FictionPress.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

The first time I kissed someone, it wasn't at all like I had imagined—and trust me when I say that I had spent hours imagining it. It was a summer night just after my seventeenth birthday. We were sitting side by side in the empty football stadium. I can still feel the bleachers, cold and hard beneath my legs. My elbow was touching the side of his body. I could feel how warm he was. He didn't move, but just let me touch him. The air between us was thick with anticipation. And then, just like that, his lips were on mine. In a few seconds, a wall that had once seemed impenetrable was crossed. I was no longer unkissed.

The first time I killed someone, it wasn't at all like I had imagined. It was as quick and as effortless as snipping a string. I squeezed the trigger, and the man fell back. It was so dark that I could barely see the outline of his face. I watched him for a long time, waiting for something. _What_ _was I waiting for?_ The man didn't move, except for a brief shudder. It seemed for a moment as if I too had stopped breathing. But in the cold I could see my breath visible in small white puffs. I waited for the world to open up and swallow me, but nothing came. In the corner where I hid, I saw a small brown bird hopping. He reached the edge of my vision and took flight. It was only me who had changed.

**Chapter One: The Crossing**

When I last saw my mother, we were standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. It was deserted. People were no longer allowed to travel into the city. It was too dangerous. On that morning, the fog was heavy—its wet, white fingers lacing themselves through the burnt red cables. My mother and I walked across the bridge, neither of us speaking. We had to move quickly since there were regular patrols. When we neared the now-vacant tollbooths, my mother handed me a backpack. I finally looked at her. Her expression was stone, but her eyes were heavy with worry. I tried to mirror her strength, but I fought back tears.

"Can't you come with me?" I asked, already knowing the answer. We had planned this for months. I knew there were no other options.

"Lex," she said my name sympathetically as if I were a small child asking for something impossible, "when you find them, give them this." She pressed a small computer flash drive into my hand and took me into her arms. "I'm so proud of you, my girl. No matter what happens, remember that."

I tried to control my breathing, but I felt as if I was drowning. For as long as I could remember, I saw my mother as the tether that grounded me to my world. Without her, I was a feather blown by the wind. I wanted to tell her that, but it would have felt too much like saying good-bye.

I whispered, "I know."

My mother let go first and began walking away. Ahead of me, I saw only fog. I walked toward the tollbooths, then past them. My legs felt like heavy bags of sand. I imagined that, after a few steps, my mother turned and watched me until I disappeared behind layers of whiteness. But I'm not sure because I couldn't look back.


	2. Chapters 2-3

**Chapter Two: Emovere**

My first view of San Francisco was from my parents' car window as we crossed the Bay Bridge. I was almost eight years old, and we had just moved from Los Angeles. My mother, a forensic psychiatrist, had accepted a research position at Zenigenic, an up-and-coming pharmaceutical company. My father had eagerly pointed at the city, grinning as I gasped. I rolled down the window and let the cold air rush in. Ever since that first drive across the bridge, San Francisco always looked the same to me: surreal, as if each building had been carefully crafted from clay and arranged alongside the ocean by an unseen hand.

As I walked hurriedly into the heart of downtown, my mind was reeling. Nothing my mother told me could have prepared me for the city now. It was desolate in every way.

On either side of me were storefronts—most were looted and graffitied. Stepping over shards of glass, I slipped inside one of the darkened buildings. The air was cold and rancid, rank with decay and desperation. Near the doorway, shelves of groceries were overturned. Bottles were smashed, their empty shells scattered across the floor. An army of ants marched in a zigzag formation, carrying molded crumbs up the wall. I dodged puddles of congealed liquid and a frenzy of mice as I filled my backpack with a few extra cans of food and a box of cereal. Along with the supplies my mother had given me, I had enough to survive for several weeks.

I continued down Market Street, once believed to be the home of the Resistance, then I turned left. I knew exactly where I was headed. My mother and I had selected the perfect hiding place.

I tried to stay focused, but my eyes were drawn to the destruction. In the middle of the sidewalk was an overturned car, its burnt shell crumbling. Nearby, the entrance to the underground BART railway system was boarded shut and marked with large red letters. _DANGER: KEEP OUT BY ORDER OF THE GUARDIAN FORCE._ Posted on almost every building were notices of mandatory evacuation.

Up ahead of me, a stately white building beckoned—the San Francisco Public Library, one of the few remaining libraries in the country. The only consistent noise was my footsteps crunching over glass and debris. I stopped moving and surveyed the area intently, watching, listening. From somewhere unseen, I heard the distant howl of a dog. No other sounds. Even though I had expected this, it still unnerved me.

The last news broadcast from San Francisco was over a year ago. News media were no longer allowed inside the city. The one remaining government-sponsored television station, SFTV, had released propaganda—that's what my mother called it—which reported that San Francisco had been significantly damaged by the rebellion of the Resistance. But, in the days leading up to my walk across the Golden Gate, my mother had received a report from the Resistance that it was the Guardian Force that had bombed portions of the Bay Bridge, making the city that much less accessible.

That night my mother and I sat huddled at the kitchen table, both of us dreading the inevitable.

"It's time, Mom," I said. "If we wait any longer, there will be no way into the city."

I studied my mother's face. To me, she had once been radiant, her eyes always smiling. In the years since my father had left, she looked increasingly tired.

My mother nodded. "I know. But it's just . . ."

She searched for the right words, but there were none. "It's dangerous. I should go with you."

We both knew that was impossible. As one of the faces of the Resistance, my mother would be recognized easily.

She touched my hand. "You know, I can't lose you."

My mother's words still cautioning me, I approached the library with trepidation. Just outside the door was a familiar reminder of my mother's career at Zenigenic: a small vending machine, marked with a large, metallic _Z_. The machines dotted most street corners in the city and doled out emotion-stimulating and inhibiting drugs, like the kind my mother had been tasked to develop.

One of those was Emovere, which in its earliest form targeted the brain's amygdala. While on the drug, patients felt little to no fear. I remember as a girl watching a recorded demonstration of an Emovere clinical trial. An expressionless man walked to the edge of what he perceived to be a tall building. When instructed by researchers, he stepped from the edge and plummeted into a net 50 feet below. He never screamed.

Operated by biometric identification, the machines could recognize a user and distribute medication with the simple press of a fingerprint. Mental illness was not a requirement, only the desire to alter one's emotional state. It seemed that almost everyone was eager to feel or _not_ to feel something—a sentiment captured in Zenigenic's slogan, "How do _you_ want to feel today?"

This machine was unique. It drew me in. Taped to the front, side by side, were rows of flyers branded by the Resistance. Looking back at me from each faded paper was an image of my mother. The outer glass was cracked. All the medication stolen long ago, even before Emovere was banned by the government. I contemplated my mother's face—_surely, it was a sign_—hoping to be reassured, but I only felt more alone. The picture had been chosen strategically from her discarded Zenigenic badge. The caption below read _Emovere Kills: Knightley Calls It Biggest Regret_.

Now it haunted her, a relentless ghost, but Emovere was once my mother's crowning achievement. Its development catapulted her into the spotlight as one of the nation's eminent psychiatric researchers. Looking back, I could see now that it was also the tipping point, the turn in the road, the single step that sent all of our lives into a free fall.

The library door was already cracked open, a thin beam of sunlight cast onto a nearby bookcase. Giving the door a gentle push, I tiptoed inside.

** Chapter Three: Quin**

The first time I saw Quin, I was on the edge of sleep, thinking of my mother. She would read to me every night, then run her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep. That world, the world containing my mother, had died so long ago—_was it really only twenty days?_—that sometimes I believed it had happened to someone else, not me. When I thought of my old life, I imagined it far above me, like a child's lost balloon. At first there was the hope of grabbing it, recovering it, bringing it safely back to the clutches of my hand. Then it was out of reach, and I could only watch it and wonder where it would go. Finally, the tiny dot of it disappeared, and I realized it was never mine to begin with.

I sat upright, nearly hitting my head on the desk—a graffitied table hidden in the library's stacks—where I slept. At first, I thought it was a dream. _How long had I been sleeping?_ A pinprick of light darted across the library floor. I held my breath.

In the twenty days, now twenty-one, that I had been in the library, a small brown bird fluttering near the doorway had been the only sign of life. I heard muffled footsteps and a _click-click-click_ sound, like nails tapping on glass.

Cursing myself for getting too comfortable, I fumbled for the backpack my mother had given to me, rifling hurriedly through its contents—a few remaining cans of food and granola bars, a flashlight, a map of the city, a wad of money that had so far been useless, a change of clothing, and toothpaste—until I found it . . .the_ gun_. When I slept, I usually kept it close to me, but tonight, _of all nights_, I had forgotten.

I positioned myself behind the metal stacks, concealing the gun close to my side. It was heavy and cold. My mother had taught me to use it, but firing a weapon seemed like something that someone else would do, some other version of me. Still, I told myself that I was prepared to. I had to be.

Through the darkness, I saw a boot. A brownish black tail—a dog? Panic started to make its way into my throat, my heart thumping as fast as a hummingbird's. For a moment, I wondered if it was possible to die of fear.

In my mind, I heard my mother's voice, "Fear serves a purpose."

She first spoke those words when I was ten. An earthquake had startled me from sleep. A picture above my dresser crashed to the floor. Yet my mother was calm.

"Are you afraid?"

I couldn't speak, but I nodded.

"Good," she said, holding me close to her. "It's okay to be afraid. Fear is your body's way of telling you something important." Even then, I bristled at the irony in my mother's words.

"Artos, come," said a man's stern voice, followed by a _click-click-click_ of what I could only assume were Artos' nails on the library floor. It had been so long since I'd heard a voice other than my own. It was both horrifying and exhilarating. For the rest of the night, I stayed close to the stacks, coaching myself to control my breathing—a trick my mother had taught me. Twice I forced myself to peer into the darkness, expecting something monstrous to meet my gaze. There was nothing.

I didn't see him again until two days later. I had almost begun to believe I had imagined him. I replayed that terrifying night visit again and again in my mind, searching for some clue. My mother had told me to be cautious—to wait, to watch, to be certain. I _had_ to be certain.

When I saw him again, it was by chance. It was near dawn, and the rising orange sun cast an eerie light through the library. I was washing my face in the library's bathroom, allowing myself a quick glance in the mirror. I had the kind of face that people were always saying they recognized. My mother told me it was a compliment, that I made others feel comfortable, familiar. But I suspected my face was simply ordinary, so ordinary that it was practically interchangeable.

My long, dark hair was pulled back into a matted ponytail. I moved closer to the mirror and looked into my own eyes. My father always told me that they were like my mother's, kind and bright. As I leaned in, the locket my mother gave me for my eighteenth birthday clinked against the mirror. In it were two faces, both of them smiling—my parents. The gift was unexpected because, by then, my mother's savings had diminished and most of the jewelry stores in the Bay Area had closed after the collapse of the economy.

A faint noise from outside startled me. I froze. Crouching below the window, I peered over the sill and saw him. He was standing near the library's entrance with Artos, a German Shepherd, at his side. I tried to memorize him. He was tall with dark hair that was cut short, but had grown longish at the ends. His clothing was plain, and he wore military-style boots. His shoulders were broad and strong. I couldn't see his face. He was looking out, away from me, at something just beyond my vision. On the inside of his forearm, I saw the outline of a familiar tattoo. I drew in a breath.

Back at the safety of my desk, I tried to make sense of it. The tattoo could only mean he was a member of the Guardian Force and couldn't be trusted. My mother warned me that all Guardian officers and military personnel were under the influence of Emovere since the federal government had awarded Zenigenic a confidential contract. With Emovere, the government had virtually eliminated occurrences of posttraumatic stress. If you can't feel fear, then you won't be haunted by it.

Still, there was something about the way he moved—cautiously, carefully—that made me wonder.


	3. Chapters 4-6

**Chapter Four: Freedom**

Leaving the library was a risk, but after seeing the tattooed man for the second time, I began to feel a sense of urgency. My mother warned me to guard against my impatience, but it was growing more and more difficult to wait.

"Remember," my mother had chided, "they will come to you."

The Resistance, wherever, _whatever_ it was, wasn't to be sought out. After my mother began to speak out publicly about the dangers of Emovere, she was contacted by the Resistance. By then, the government had placed significant restrictions on the public's use of emotion-altering medications, including Emovere. Still, for a price, it was accessible to those who wanted it. And many did.

I peered cautiously out of the library door into the street. It was nearing twilight, and a light rain had begun to fall. Papers blew into the doorway around my feet, most of them posters promoting the Resistance. I clutched my jacket tighter around me. I had no plan. I felt tentative, like a caged animal that had just discovered freedom lay beyond a broken latch. Uncertain, I stepped into the rain, leaving the library behind me.

I headed south. The rain was coming down harder now, stinging my skin. The air felt electric, as if my apprehension was a tangible, steady buzz. I passed familiar streets. At Powell Street, a cable car was overturned, branded in red spray paint with the mark of the Resistance: The Bowl of Hygeia—the Greek symbol of pharmacy—cracked and turned on its side, with a skull tumbling from within it. It was a striking image, both derisive and foreboding.

Most of the stores in this part of the city had been vacant long before the Resistance began. People could no longer afford luxuries. One of the shops was familiar: a toy store where my father had taken me while we waited for my mother to finish a meeting. Back then, it seemed we were always waiting for my mother. After her role in developing Emovere, she became somewhat of a celebrity, appearing on news shows and chatting with her supporters on social media. At home, my mother never boasted about her success, but she didn't have to. It was as apparent and ever-present as her shadow.

As I peered into the toy store's rain-fogged windows, I had a flash of my father, swinging me by the arms in a circle, both of us laughing. I had few memories of him, so I guarded them preciously. He left when I was ten. The last time I saw him, I was lingering in the doorway of my bedroom, looking out into the kitchen where my parents stood, arguing.

"I don't think you know what you're doing—what the consequences could be. Do you even care?" My father's face was red with anger, but he looked defeated. Their arguments had grown more frequent, yet each was the same as the last. My father wanted my mother to resign from her position at Zenigenic.

"Of course, I care." My mother lowered her voice. "You _know_ I care."

"I don't know _anything_ about you anymore."

My father turned from my mother. When his eyes briefly met mine, I saw that he felt satisfied and then, ashamed. When I returned from school the next day, he was gone. In the years that followed, I came to understand why he left my mother. She could be distant and selfish at times. But I never forgave him for leaving me.

It was almost dark by now, and the remaining light cast shadows around me. They danced eerily at the edges of my vision. I walked faster. I had hoped that by leaving the library, I would discover something to direct me to the Resistance. I saw now that there was nothing here.

_What if my mother had been wrong about everything? How could she let me come here alone?_ For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to feel angry with her. I turned back toward the library. The rain had subsided, but I was wet and cold. I started to run.

As I ran, I caught broken glimpses of myself in what remained of the store windows. I looked wild, careless. Fear began to tug at me, whispering at first, then speaking urgently. I could hear the soft, methodical thud of what sounded like footsteps behind me. I ran faster, not daring to look. By the time I reached the library, I was certain that at any moment someone, _something_, was just a fingertip's length behind me. As I approached the door, I took one quick look back to ready myself. The street was empty and blanketed in darkness.

**Chapter Five: The First Time**

_Whoosh!_ I slammed the library door shut, sending leaves and papers swirling about the room. I pressed my back into the wall, breathing heavily. In the library, it was as dark as a cave. I reached for the light switch, flicking it on and off and on again. Nothing.

_It's just a blackout_, I told myself, squinting into the blackness. The government reported that California's frequent power outages were caused by the country's crumbling infrastructure. My mother, on the other hand, was convinced that the blackouts were manufactured to keep us in a constant state of uncertainty. I wasn't sure what to believe.

From above my head, a familiar brown bird swooped past me. I squealed with surprise and began laughing. _How was I ever going to be worthy of the Resistance if I couldn't manage a bird? _

"You almost gave me a heart attack," I said aloud, my words echoing in the empty room.

I removed my jacket and left it in a wet heap near the door. I turned on my flashlight, sending a thin yellow beam of light through the room. Though my brief adventure had been unsuccessful, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. I had stepped out into the world and returned intact.

Just as my body began to relax, I felt a sudden, sharp impact to my side. I doubled over. The flashlight slid across the floor, striking the wall with a thud. _Run. Run! RUN!_ My brain screamed at me, but, for an instant, I couldn't move. Finally, instinct took over. I scrambled to my feet, trying to reach the gun concealed in the back of my pants. I heard a man's heavy breathing and felt him reaching for me through the darkness. He struck me again, this time in the chest. I felt dizzy. He grabbed at my shirt, and there it was—the black-inked badge on his inner left forearm. A Guardian! He pulled me closer toward him. I landed a solid kick to his knee, then ran toward the back of the library, hiding in a small alcove.

He followed.

I waited.

The man moved clumsily in the dark. As he neared the alcove, I could see he wasn't who I thought he was. He had long blond hair and was heavily muscled. He wore a dark uniform and carried handcuffs and a weapon at his side. Unlike the other tattooed man, he moved without concern as if he couldn't be harmed. Though I couldn't be certain, I suspected he was under the influence of Emovere. His lack of fear was a weakness. He wouldn't anticipate danger.

Time seemed to slow, my senses heightened by my terror. I saw only the man, plodding toward me, his boots causing thunderous echoes in my ears. _Tunnel vision_, I thought to myself, remembering my mother's description of the body's response to fear. I steadied my breathing and considered the gun in my hand. _What choice did I have?_ I squeezed the trigger, and the man fell back.

** Chapter Six: Found**

Ten long minutes later, I found the Resistance. Or rather, _they_ found me. I hadn't moved from the alcove. I felt heavy inside, my stomach a churning pit of rocks. I had never killed anything larger than a spider—until now. My eyes were drawn to the dead man. He lay face down with his head turned unnaturally to the side. A river of blood snaked its way from underneath him. It was painful to look at him, yet I found it hard to look away.

When my mother told me about her research with criminals, most of them murderers, I hung on every word, waiting for the _why_. The _why_ fascinated me so much more than the _how_. Each case was a riddle I needed to solve, to understand how such things were possible. But I was always disappointed—the _why_ never completely satisfying me. Now I understood. _I_ was a murderer . . . no different from the men my mother had studied.

In the distance, I heard the rumble of an engine. It steadily grew louder and then stopped. I knew I should be afraid, but I felt numb. The library door creaked as it swung open, and I heard the _click-click-click_ that had awakened me nights before—along with the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Where are you?" The man's voice was gruff and demanding, almost a growl.

I said nothing. I tried to be as still and silent as a stone. I could hear Artos sniffing the ground feverishly.

"We don't have much time. In case you didn't notice, you killed a Guardian."

His words surprised me. Wasn't _he_ a Guardian?

"Okay," he said. "It's your choice. They'll be here to arrest you any minute now, but I guess you can handle it." Strange, but his sarcasm made me smile.

"Who are you?" my voice croaked.

"I'm here to help you. Right now, that's all you need to know."

I thought of my mother. She had sent me here. She had trusted me. I had to trust myself. I stood slowly, steadying myself against the wall. My legs felt like rubber.

"I'm here," I said, taking a step from behind the alcove. "I'm here."


	4. Chapters 7-10

**Chapter Seven: First Impressions**

"We gotta go," he said, looking around nervously.

Now that I could see his face, I saw that he was young, about my age. But there was a seriousness about him that made him seem older, as if life had already written "sadness" on his slate. He had strong features with a faint beard shadowing his jawline.

"Get your stuff," he directed harshly.

As he spoke, he walked purposefully to the dead man. He kneeled beside him and removed a needle and vial from his jacket pocket. Taking the man's arm in his hand, he inserted the needle and withdrew a sample of blood. He moved efficiently, as if he'd done this many times before. He probably had. The thought unnerved me.

Then he searched the dead man's clothing. He removed his cellular telephone, quickly snapping out and pocketing its tiny memory card. He discarded the telephone's shell in the corner. Last, he produced something from the man's pocket. It was the flash drive my mother had given me. I instantly felt foolish for leaving it behind, unprotected.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"No." It was the truth. My mother had not told me. I could only wonder.

I walked toward the door, retrieving my still-wet jacket and backpack. My mother had always been good at keeping secrets. I recalled a conversation we had years earlier. In school, we were studying the human brain. I asked my mother why so many people wanted to alter their emotions. What I really wanted to ask was, "Why are _you_ helping them do it?" But I knew she would be hurt.

"Not everyone is like us, Lex," she told me. "Their emotions get the best of them. Feelings are a bit like a wild animal—unpredictable—and they can be dangerous if you can't control them."

I never told my mother that, for months after my father left, I cried every night as I fell asleep, letting my tears dead-end into my pillowcase. I guess I had my secrets too.

"My mother gave it to me. I should keep it." My voice sounded more forceful than I had intended.

"Yes, you should _keep_ it." He raised his eyebrows at me, scolding me. Even worse, I deserved it.

He stood by the door, Artos looking up at him anxiously. "Are you ready?" he asked me, begrudgingly handing me the flash drive.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" I tried to sneak a glance at his left forearm, but it was covered by his jacket sleeve.

He rolled his eyes. "Quin McAllister," he said, exasperated. Though his expression was cold, there was a glimpse of warmth underneath.

"And this is Artos." At the sound of his name, Artos' tail pendulummed back and forth.

"Alexandra," I offered without being asked, "but everyone calls me Lex."

It wasn't the whole truth. Most people called me Lexi, a nickname I hated. Hearing it, I couldn't help but picture myself as a small, fluffy dog. My whole fifth grade year, an awful boy named Jeffrey had called me Sexy Lexi—a name made even more humiliating by its obvious contrast to my then-awkward appearance. The truth was that only my parents called me Lex.

"Lex," he repeated. I felt warmth, an instant rush of precious memories. I saw my mother's face.

"So you're Lex." He smirked. "Daughter of the _great _Dr. Knightley. I was expecting someone a bit more . . ." His voice trailed off as he studied me.

My face felt hot. I wasn't used to being examined so intently by the opposite sex. The last time I had been this close to a boy my own age, he had kissed me. My first kiss. My _only_ kiss. It seemed a lifetime ago.

My mother referred to me as a "late bloomer," an expression I despised. I imagined myself as a cold, hard seed in the ground, waiting impatiently while life sprung up around me.

"Don't worry," she had said. "It will happen." _It_ being my blooming, of course. Though she always reassured me, when I told her about the kiss, I sensed that she was relieved.

I met Quin's stare. The warmth I had felt disappeared. I felt exposed.

"A bit more _what_?" Inwardly, I groaned. I sounded like a child seeking approval.

"Let's go," Quin said, ignoring my question. He opened the door and waited. Artos trotted out obediently.

"Where are we going?" My voice sounded small.

Quin said nothing, but his silence felt like a reprimand. I didn't like him, but I trusted him without knowing why.

**Chapter Eight: What Lies Beneath **

We rode in silence, Artos between us. I shivered. My clothing was still wet, and the night air was cold. I petted Artos' head gently, and he licked my hand. At least Artos liked me. The truck—apparently abandoned by someone fleeing the city—smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Adhered to the dashboard was a small paper calendar: March 2040, over one year ago, when a mandatory evacuation order forced most people from the city.

When my mother and I first received word of the evacuation, we weren't surprised. SFTV had been documenting the increasing unrest in San Francisco for years. Though small Resistance factions had developed across the country, the political climate in California made San Francisco a fitting home for its headquarters. For several years, the Resistance held regular protest rallies in front of several of the major pharmaceutical companies.

When the rallies became volatile, the federal government established the Guardian Force to maintain order in the city. Still, the Resistance marched and bedlam followed—looting and graffiti became commonplace, as did violent clashes between protestors and the Guardian Force. Citizens were urged, and eventually mandated, to leave the city for their own protection.

"How did you know where to find me?" I asked. The question had been gnawing at the back of my brain all night.

"How do you think? We were watching you." He glanced sideways at me, waiting for my reaction.

I paused, carefully considering his use of the word _we._

"I saw you," I said. "But . . ." I stopped myself. It was still too soon to tell him that I had seen his tattoo.

Quin appeared unfazed. He gestured with his head. "We're here."

_Here_ was nowhere really—the middle of The Embarcadero, a main thoroughfare that ran right next to the ocean. Quin left the truck parked in an alleyway between two buildings. We walked a circuitous route toward the Financial District with Quin silently alerting me to several overhead surveillance cameras. Artos stayed close to Quin's side, his ears perked and alert. At the corner of Market and Embarcadero, Quin turned to me and pointed ahead, smirking again.

"Welcome to the Resistance headquarters."

His words were intended to shock me, and they did. The Resistance had been right underneath me all along. Literally.

**Chapter Nine: Watched**

Quin was pointing to the boarded entrance of the underground BART railway station. He easily removed one of the boards, which had been left loosened. The eerie quiet of the city made sense now. As is often the case, life was happening underground. For a moment, I felt the ache of melancholy. I wished my mother could be here with me. Things felt less real to me without her.

"After you," he said, gesturing toward the staircase.

Artos and I began walking down the stairs. Behind us, Quin carefully placed the board back in its position and followed. Just at the foot of the staircase was a large steel door with a keypad. Quin placed his thumb into the device and typed in a code. The door opened.

The sprawling BART station had been given a second life. In the middle of the wall up ahead, the mark of the Resistance was painted in bold red. At the center, there was a control station of sorts with at least twenty monitors capturing various portions of the city from above. Several armed men were stationed nearby. They acknowledged Quin with a nod.

Quin pointed to the monitors. "The government has its eyes all over the city. Our computer engineer, Hiro, was able to tap into their surveillance system. We see _what_ they see, _when_ they see it."

I wondered how long the Resistance had been watching me. _Had they witnessed my first night in the library? Had they seen me hiding from Quin? Or my wild run through the rain? Had they known I was in danger?_

I followed Quin. He effortlessly scaled the turnstiles that blocked our entrance, then offered his hand.

"I can do it myself," I said, glad that my mother had insisted on our daily workouts—pushups, sit-ups, and a five-mile run in a park near our home.

"Suit yourself," he replied, not glancing back.

He continued walking through a long, sterile corridor and down an unmoving escalator onto the pedestrian platform. I remembered standing here when the trains were still running, hearing the roar and feeling the cold rush of air sliding past me as they approached. Now, there was only stillness and silence.

The trains were shut down more than one year prior to the evacuation. It was one of the government's first attempts to quell the Resistance. SFTV reported that members of the Resistance were targeting stations near the pharmaceutical companies, vandalizing trains and accosting passengers. My mother and I had watched from the West Oakland station as the last train returned from San Francisco.

Quin's voice interrupted my memory. "You'll meet everyone tomorrow," he said. "I'll show you where you can sleep tonight."

Artos was already running excitedly down the tracks. In his wake, birds scattered frantically. Quin hopped down from the platform and started walking into the black tunnel ahead.

"Down there? You've got to be kidding me." I laughed, but inside I was wondering if I had made a fatal error in coming here, putting my faith in Quin, with his Guardian tattoo.

Reading my thoughts, Quin replied, "Trust me."

If I didn't go with him, I would be spending the night on the platform alone. Or _worse_, back in the bleakness of the city. I hesitated, then began walking. Quin produced a small flashlight from his jacket before we headed straight into the darkness.

**Chapter Ten: Perks**

About one hundred yards ahead, Quin opened another door with his fingerprint. Inside was a tunnel that widened into a series of rooms. Each door was branded with the mark of the Resistance.

"How is this possible?" I wondered aloud.

Not surprisingly, Quin didn't answer. It seemed that he carefully chose when to speak and when to be silent. I was almost starting to like that about him.

He led me into a small, sparse room with a twin-sized bed and its own bathroom.

"Our visitors stay here," he explained. Though I didn't dare say it, I doubted the Resistance typically entertained visitors.

"I'll give you a moment to settle in," he said. "But first, I'll need your weapon. Visitors aren't authorized to carry guns."

Though I knew it was probably foolhardy, handing the gun to Quin felt like releasing the heaviest of burdens. After he left, I sat down on the bed, letting the day sink into my mind. It seemed impossible so much had happened in one day. But even at eighteen, I already knew life was like that. Sometimes a day can contain a lifetime.

My brain was buzzing with questions, annoying little flies that I tried to swat unsuccessfully. I managed to silence my thoughts long enough to enjoy a hot shower. I changed into the dry clothing in my backpack, slipping my mother's flash drive into my pocket. I would not let it out of my sight again.

On the desk near the bed, I placed the one possession that I treasured most: an anthology of poetry that belonged to my mother. I had read it so many times, it seemed as if the words were my own. My mother's favorite poem—Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese"—was dog-eared. When I thought of my mother folding the corner of that page for me, I felt a pit deep in my stomach. I sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, unyielding, but far more comfortable than the library floor.

A short time later, Quin returned with a sandwich and a glass of water. He sat down on the bed next to me with Artos at his feet. Quin seemed more relaxed. I could feel the warmth from his body. He smelled like summer. He had taken off his jacket, and my eyes instantly went to his inner forearm—the black-inked badge clearly visible now. Quin rubbed his finger across the tattoo. I averted my eyes, but I knew that I had been caught.

"You can ask me about it, if you want," he said.

"Well, that's new," I joked.

Quin laughed, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked his age again, his seriousness momentarily dissolved. "I guess I can be a bit difficult at times."

"Difficult? Is that how you would describe it?" I met his eyes for a moment, and we both smiled.

I quickly looked away. I didn't want him to think that I was flirting. _Was_ _I flirting?_

"You have some better words, I presume?" Quin teased, gesturing at my book on the table. "Haven't seen someone with one of those in a while."

I nodded. Traditional books were almost obsolete since most information was digital, stored on small computer tablets. "My mother gave it to me."

"So . . ." I was tentative, trying to select the least offensive words. "You're a Guardian?" I finally asked, practically whispering the word _Guardian_ as if invoking it held some mysterious power.

Quin took a breath. His brow furrowed. "I _was_ a Guardian . . . but not anymore."

"Why?" I asked. That same small question that really was so big. "Why did you become a Guardian?"

"Let's just say that being a Guardian comes with certain perks."

"Like Emovere?" As soon as I spoke the words, I immediately regretted them. Though his face remained expressionless, Quin's eyes were not as skilled at deception. "Sorry," I muttered.

"More like food and shelter," Quin replied. "I was only sixteen and homeless when they recruited me."

I looked at him quizzically. I hadn't expected that. "What about your family?"

"Gone," he said. He disguised it well, but I heard a tangible ache in his voice. I knew better than to press for more.

Quin slipped back into his stony silence, then stood and walked to the doorway. "Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be busy."

I nodded, but I couldn't imagine a day any busier than this one.

"Artos, stay," he commanded. As Quin closed the door, Artos whined and then settled near the foot of my bed.

Taking the book of poetry from the desk, my fingers easily found my mother's dog-eared page. Once I skimmed past the first few lines, I thought of Quin as I read.


	5. Chapters 11-13

**Chapter Eleven: Max and Elana**

I jolted awake. For a brief moment, I panicked, my surroundings still unfamiliar. Through the small rectangular window in the door, I could see Quin's face. Looking up at him, Artos sat patiently, but expectantly. I stumbled to the door, hoping I was somewhat presentable.

"Did I wake you?" Quin asked politely, as if it wasn't completely obvious. He wore blue jeans and a gray T-shirt that fit snugly against the curves of his biceps.

I smiled sheepishly and glanced at the clock on the wall. It read 8:30, but it seemed as if I had been sleeping for days—yesterday, a dream I had only now awakened from.

"Get dressed," Quin said. "I want to show you around. There are a lot of people waiting to meet you."

I felt my stomach churn. I was finally going to see the faces of the Resistance.

About thirty minutes later, Quin returned, and we revisited our path from the previous night. As we walked, he showed me the rest of the sleeping quarters and the dining hall. Apparently, many of the Resistance shared a room with a roommate since most of the quarters contained two beds.

"Everyone here has a job," he said. "We have technology experts, ex-military, scientists, nurses, cooks. We're like a community. No one is more important than anyone else."

"What's your job?" I asked.

"Surveillance."

"Why did you choose that?" I wondered aloud. I couldn't imagine Quin selecting a job that required patience.

"It's slightly calmer than my last gig," he answered, grinning at me and turning his hand to reveal his Guardian tattoo.

He pointed to a secure door on my right. "This room may interest you. It's our laboratory."

I peered inside. Large-screen computers lined the walls. In the center stood a workstation, apparently used to analyze blood and chemicals. A colorful diagram of the brain hung on the wall.

Quin also pointed out the armory and the kitchen, both of which had been well stocked in the days leading up to the evacuation. Though I saw no one, I had the sense we were being watched closely by hidden eyes.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

Quin gestured down the long, dark tunnel in the opposite direction of my room. "The Map Room. It's where we keep the maps of the city and the underground BART tunnels. We usually meet there. They announce upcoming meetings over the intercom." Quin pointed to several small speakers mounted down the wall of the tunnel.

"And we have these for when we're authorized to leave headquarters." He showed off a walkie-talkie clasped to his waistband.

Quin continued down the tunnel, stopping when he came to a large window. "Here's the control room. I have some people I'd like you to meet."

Inside, a stocky young man with spiky blond hair sat perched on the edge of a desk, carefully scrutinizing the screen displays. Next to him, a girl read a magazine on a computer tablet. Quin knocked softly on the thick glass.

"Q, my man!" yelled Spiky, his voice barely audible through the glass. He opened the door and embraced Quin. The girl rose to her feet, also smiling at Quin. He grinned back at her, nudging her teasingly in the side with his elbow. I watched more intently than I cared to admit. Quin seemed different with them, lighter somehow.

"Lex." Quin looked over his shoulder at me. "These are my friends, Max and Elana."

Before either of them spoke, I noticed they both had Guardian tattoos.

Max, aka Spiky, extended his hand. "Maximillian Powers, surveillance extraordinaire at your service." He grinned, shaking my hand vigorously.

Elana and I studied each other cautiously, the way girls do. There was no other way to say it—Elana was stunning. She had peridot-colored eyes and long, red hair that coursed in waves down her shoulders. She wore no make-up, her skin bare except for a smattering of freckles. Her petite frame curved in all the right places, making my athletic build seem ungainly and hulking by comparison. I had known girls like her in school. Boys gravitated toward them, orbiting them like the sun. Next to her, I was practically invisible—a cold, gray star that was merely waiting to fall.

She spoke first. I was prepared to despise her, but her voice was soft and warm. "Elana Hamilton." She offered her hand. "It's so nice to finally meet you. I feel like I know you already." She cast her eyes downward and gave a timid smile.

Max chuckled. "Well, we do know a lot about you."

I looked at Max quizzically.

Quin explained, "Max, Elana, and I were in charge of your surveillance. After your mother told us you'd be coming, we followed you into the city and took turns watching you. We tried to warn your mother that it was unsafe. You got lucky, Lex. _Really _lucky."

Max and Elana glanced nervously at each other, as if they were sharing a distressing memory.

"The morning you crossed the bridge, there was a blackout. We lost the feed from the surveillance cameras, and I'm guessing the Guardians did too. Otherwise . . ." Quin's voice trailed off.

Max put his hand on my shoulder. His voice was thick with sarcasm. "Let's just say, we wouldn't have had the pleasure of meeting you."

I tried to absorb the impact of Max's words. Without that power outage, it would have been over. The Guardians would have taken me. I shuddered as an image of the dead man flashed in my mind.

"So you couldn't see me on those?" I gestured toward the control booth.

As I spoke, several members of the Resistance passed by, one of the men calling out to Elana. "Hey there, Red," he teased, smiling at her. Elana's body tensed instantly. She didn't acknowledge the man. Instead, she looked only at me. I noticed that both Quin and Max eyed the man with annoyance.

"No," Elana answered my question. "That's why it took the Guardians so long to find you. As soon as you left the library, their cameras spotted you."

With each answer, my questions multiplied. They were now a determined army marching through my brain.

"If you knew where I was and knew that I was in danger, why would you leave me there?" Though my question was directed to all of them, I looked only at Quin.

He sighed. "We had orders. We had to know that we could trust you."

"I guess I passed the test then, huh?" My voice sounded angrier than I expected, and it silenced them.

Max was the first to speak. "You sure did. I bet your mom would be proud."

I knew he was trying to make me feel better, so I let him.

"Your mom's gonna want to meet _this_ guy," Max said, slapping Quin on the back and laughing.

Quin stiffened. His face instantly hardened like a shell. I looked to Max for an explanation.

"He didn't tell you?" Max asked, his voice incredulous.

When I didn't respond, he turned to Quin, "You didn't tell her?"

"Tell me what?"

Quin looked from Max to me. His eyes were brimming with shame. "We'll talk about it later," he said. Without another word, he turned and walked out of sight. Elana followed after him.

Quin's words echoed in my head. Even though I hardly knew him, I knew enough to know that when he said _later_, he meant _never_.

** Chapter Twelve: By Choice**

Max and I glanced awkwardly at each other. "Well, I guess I know how to break up a party," he joked.

"Is he always like this?"

"If by _this_, you mean moody, but strikingly handsome, then yes. Unfortunately, he is." Max grinned, and I instantly realized why Quin considered him a friend.

"Can I ask you something?" I had to know if Max and Elana had also been Guardians, and why there seemed to be so many of those tattoos around here in the headquarters of their enemy.

I pointed to his left forearm.

"This old thing, huh? I'm thinking of turning it into something—something tough, like a dragon." We both laughed.

"So you were a Guardian like Quin?"

"Sort of," he said. "Elana and I are Guardian rejects. We didn't meet their expectations. Apparently, our scouting reports were greatly exaggerated."

I listened intently. My mother had taught me to fear the Guardians, but she had told me very little about them. I only knew they were a highly specialized military police force that secretly used Emovere to suppress fear. SFTV lionized the Guardian Force as a collection of elite heroes. Their standards for selection were reportedly very high—and their methods for identifying recruits, mysterious. There was never any mention of Emovere, of course.

"This may seem kind of personal, but why were you rejected?"

Max paused for a long time. "Apparently, I am . . . _homosexual_." He pronounced the word like it was foreign to him. "The Guardians have a pretty antiquated view of the world. I guess they thought I'd be too busy checking out Quin to fight the Resistance." He gave a sly smile. "Come to think of it, they were probably right."

I laughed. I had never heard the word _homosexual_ said aloud until now, but I had read the term in one of my mother's old psychology textbooks. The word was simply no longer used in conversation. In most places—especially in San Francisco—sexuality was a non-issue.

"And Elana?" I couldn't imagine Elana was anything but perfect in every way. I tried to convince myself I didn't care that she had gone after Quin. _Why should I care?_

"She didn't pass the final intelligence screening. It's very difficult. Most recruits fail that stage. Besides, Elana could _never_ have been a Guardian. Even when they gave her Emovere, she was still far too tentative."

Max's words triggered a vague recollection of one of my mother's articles. In it, she had explained how severe past trauma made some individuals partially immune to Emovere's effects, requiring a higher dosage to achieve the desired results. The cause of their immunity was unclear but, anecdotally, my mother had observed that women were more likely to be Emovere resistant. I wondered if Elana, like Quin, had been through something irrevocable.

"How did you end up here?" I asked.

"The Resistance came looking for us. Obviously, because of what we knew, we were an asset to them."

"I can't imagine the Guardians being too pleased with that," I said.

Max looked down, his expression heavy with emotion. "No. There haven't been any defectors since Quin over a year ago."

I considered his words with trepidation. The Guardian qualification standards were overly demanding, making it highly unlikely that no one else had been rejected. But if they hadn't defected to the Resistance, then where had they gone? _What had happened to them?_ I couldn't ask the question. I feared the answer was unthinkable. Instead I chose another question, one that had been nagging at me since the night before.

"What about Quin?" I asked. If I didn't get the answer from Max, I would certainly never get it from Quin.

"Quin is kind of amazing." Max smirked. "He breezed through the training. He was a member of the Guardian Force for two years."

"So what happened?"

Max's face grew serious. "Don't ever tell Quin that I told you this. As you can tell, he's very . . ._ private_."

"I'm sensing that," I said, half-smiling at him. "It's just between us," I added, eager for his answer.

Max leaned toward me, his voice barely audible. "Quin is the only member of the Guardian Force to have ever left by choice."

** Chapter Thirteen: Alcatraz**

I spent almost an hour with Max, watching the camera feeds. Most parts of the city were under surveillance, but thanks to Guardian dropouts like Max and Elana, the Resistance had learned the location of most of the cameras and was able to avoid them.

Once every thirty minutes, a Guardian helicopter circled past the Golden Gate Bridge, ensuring there were no trespassers. Surprisingly, the cameras had no view of the Bay Bridge or its surroundings, and it had been too dark the previous night for me to see it. I wondered if the information my mother had received about its bombing was accurate. Aside from the helicopter's predictable flight, there was no other movement to speak of.

"Pretty boring, huh?" Max leaned back in his chair, dangerously close to tipping it.

I nodded.

"Why can't we see the Bay Bridge?" I asked.

Max gave a sly smile. "Why do you think?" He answered his own question. "It's a little too close to home for the Guardians. They probably don't want to risk the cameras."

"Close to _home_?" The Guardian Force headquarters had been a mystery to my mother and me.

Max nodded, leaning even further back in his chair.

"Alcatraz," he said matter-of-factly. Then he laughed, shaking his head. "The irony."

Alcatraz! It truly _was_ ironic. Almost ten years ago, the government had closed Alcatraz to the public after concern was raised about the possibility of radioactive material in the soil. Since then, SFTV had periodically chronicled the government's efforts to rehabilitate the state park. After a while, we heard nothing more about it. It made perfect sense—the Guardian Force hiding their indiscretions behind ancient prison walls.

"So how did you end up training to be a Guardian?" I asked.

Max sat upright in his chair, jolted by my question. "_They_ found me. Not that I had any other offers. They told me that they knew a lot about me and thought I would be a good candidate. I was in a group home at the time."

"A group home?" I looked at Max with concern.

"Yeah, your typical sob story." He smiled. "Boy gets abused. Boy gets neglected. Boy runs away. Boy goes to a group home."

"Max, that's really awful," I said. I was beginning to suspect that Max's bold personality was a cover. "Do your parents know you're here?"

"I doubt they care." Max sighed. "My dad left us when I was a kid. Haven't seen him since. My mom couldn't really handle it. She started taking Eupho a lot. She was totally checked out. It was pretty bad."

Eupho was slang for Euphoractamine, a popular emotion-altering substance. It induced feelings of intense pleasure or euphoria.

Max shook his head as if to shake off a memory. "Then she met my stepdad—and things went from pretty bad to a lot worse. My mom got pregnant with my brother, and I think my stepdad just saw me as an unpleasant reminder of my mother's past. One of his favorite pastimes was using me as a punching bag." Max shadow boxed in my direction. "After I ran away, I told my social worker I wasn't going back home, so I went to the Oak Valley Home for Boys."

I shook my head, giving him a sympathetic look.

"Isn't it funny how those places always have nice-sounding names, like you're going on a permanent camping trip?" Max said, laughing. "That's when the Guardians found me. It seemed like they already knew that nobody would come looking for me."

I was about to ask Max if he knew how the Guardians had learned so much about him, but Quin returned, alone.

"Well, hello, Sunshine," Max teased Quin. "How kind of you to return for our guest."

Quin's mouth turned up slightly at the corners in a half smile. When he looked at me, his face was contrite, though he didn't apologize.

"C'mon, Lex," he said. "They're ready for you."


	6. Chapters 14-16

** Chapter Fourteen: Super Soldier**

I stood next to Quin at the front of the Map Room. At least three hundred pairs of eyes stared back at me. The last time I had been in front of a crowd this size, I was graduating from high school, giving my valedictory address. I remembered trying desperately to find my mother's face in a sea of faces, beads of sweat pooling underneath my long hair. Stalling, I had cleared my throat into the microphone, sending my nerves cascading in echoes throughout the stadium. Finally, when I implored myself to begin speaking, I saw her.

Now, in this sea of faces, only two were familiar: Max and Elana. I was grateful they had taken seats near the front. I tried to focus on them, but it was impossible. The faces of the Resistance were everywhere: Men and women, young and old, all races. I mentally tallied the number of Guardian tattoos, losing count at seventeen. Though the room was filled with chatter, a steady drum of voices, I often heard my last name. Curious heads turned in my direction, their eyes lingering for longer than was polite. I felt spotlighted, so I looked back at them. I wondered what they'd been told about me.

I glanced at Quin. As usual, he appeared calm, almost bored. He leaned in toward me, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.

"Apparently, you're quite the celebrity," he said quietly, his face softening into an easy smile. There was something about Quin smiling at me that felt a lot like finding my mother's face in the crowd.

"_Apparently_," I replied. "Too bad you missed your chance for an autograph."

Quin chuckled. I noticed that Max and Elana were watching us intently. Max whispered something to Elana, and she nodded.

Quin nudged my arm and gestured toward a man, standing at the back of the room.

"That's Augustus Porter," he said, his voice reverent. "Before the economy tanked, he was a successful investment banker. He's the elected leader of the Resistance."

_Augustus Porter_. I repeated the name in my head. It was unfamiliar to me, but then again, up until yesterday, the entire Resistance had been an enigma. My mother's contacts with the Resistance had been infrequent. Text messages to her emergency-only cell were always initiated by them and shrouded in secrecy. I doubted she had ever heard the name, Augustus Porter.

Augustus had the look of an aging athlete. He was tall and wiry, towering above most of the crowd. His skin was the color of candied chocolate, and he had a thick, graying beard. To say the least, he had a presence—the kind of person who changes the room just by entering it. Augustus walked toward Quin and me, the crowd parting as he passed through it.

"Hello, Ms. Knightley." He extended his hand. "Gus Porter. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." His voice was deep and booming like a bass drum. "When we heard about your mother's plan, we were quite concerned. I'm glad you've proven yourself to be tougher than we expected."

I smiled graciously, masking my annoyance. _Was that a compliment? _

"Thank you. It's a relief to be here," I said. That was true, at least.

"I'd like you to meet the Council, the governing body of the Resistance." Augustus gestured toward the group accompanying him. He named them one by one. "Cason Caruso, our strategist; Dr. Shana Bell, psychiatrist; Hiro Chen, computer and technology specialist; and Vera Bullock, pharmaceutical consultant."

Augustus paused, smiling. He put an arm around Quin. "And, of course, you've already met Mr. McAllister. He's our expert on all matters Guardian." Quin's face brightened.

"Nice to meet you all," I said, shaking their hands. Their faces were welcoming, all but Cason Caruso. Giving me a single nod of his bald head, he turned from me, disinterested. He wore a permanent scowl with a firmly set jaw as if bolted into place.

Augustus opened his arms toward the crowd. They quieted as he spoke. "Members of the Resistance, today is a landmark day in our cause. As you may have already heard, we have with us here, Ms. Alexandra Knightley, daughter of the esteemed Dr. Victoria Knightley. Dr. Knightley has been instrumental in promoting the views of the Resistance and has been working closely with us since the city was evacuated. Her daughter is here to assist us."

The crowd began to buzz, a small hive of chattering voices.

Augustus turned to me and addressed me directly. His gaze was intense. "Most likely, you have been given a great deal of misinformation by the media. The things you will hear today may shock you. You may have trouble believing them, but you can trust that the Resistance speaks the truth."

I nodded, but inside my stomach churned with an uneasy doubt. Though I wanted to believe him, my mother had taught me to be skeptical. "We aren't lie detectors, Lex," she always cautioned. Through her work with criminals, my mother had learned quickly how effortlessly people lied and, even worse, how easy it was to be duped.

Behind Augustus, a large projector screen came to life. For a brief moment, I stopped breathing. On the screen was the face of the dead man. The picture appeared to have been obtained from a social media website. In it, the dead man was clearly alive, posing for the camera. I wanted to look at Quin. I wanted to look away—anywhere, but at the dead man's face. Concealing my horror, I kept my eyes focused on the screen as Augustus spoke.

"Last night, in our efforts to rescue Alexandra, a member of the Guardian Force was killed by our surveillance team. His name was Elliot Barnes. He was twenty. We were fortunate to obtain a sample of his blood and his cell phone data."

A new screen appeared. Thankfully, the dead man—Elliot—was not on it. Instead there was a graph marked _Levels and Composition of Emovere_. I tried to focus on it, but I was distracted by Augustus' lies. _I_ had killed Elliot. _Was he trying to protect me?_ And the word _rescue _infuriated me. Quin had admitted he was under orders to allow me to fend for myself as a test of my trustworthiness.

"Consistent with our prior data, Mr. Barnes had large amounts of Emovere in his blood. As you can see, comparing our prior samples, the levels of Emovere have been steadily increasing among members of the Guardian Force. Additionally, we detected the presence of other emotion-enhancing substances, including Agitor."

My assumption about Elliot had been correct, but I hadn't expected him to be under the influence of other substances. Agitor was known as a particularly potent drug for enhancing stimulation and excitement.

Augustus continued. "These results are further proof that our suspicions about the government's motives in establishing the Guardian Force are correct."

Augustus looked directly at me as he spoke. "The Guardians are not a military police force. They are an experimental group serving only one purpose."

Another screen appeared. It was black except for two words in large red, block print: _Super Soldier._

** Chapter Fifteen: A Warning**

As the crowd dispersed, a few members of the Resistance lingered behind to shake my hand. I felt like an impostor. Attention had always come easily to my mother. She reveled in it, soaking up accolades like a sponge. For me, as for my father, it had always been more comfortable to stand just outside the spotlight. Besides, I had done nothing to warrant attention except shooting Elliot. No one but Quin and I (and Augustus?) knew that.

Most of the Resistance was gracious and welcoming, but I knew some viewed my mother's participation in the movement as too little, way too late. An older woman approached me, her brow narrowed in a hard line of contempt. As she neared, I could see that time and sadness had weathered her face. I smiled, trying to preempt the storm that I could see gaining strength inside her. She did not return my gesture.

"Alexandra, is it?" she asked, her voice already irritated.

"Yes, ma'am." I tried to be polite.

"In my opinion, your mother started this whole mess. Wasn't she the one who helped to develop Emovere in the first place?" The woman didn't wait for a response. "Now she wants to jump off that bandwagon onto ours, and we're supposed to say, _Thank you, Dr. Knightley. We're so honored, Dr. Knightley._ I don't think so. We don't need her kind of help."

"I understand why you feel that way," I said, parroting a phrase I heard my mother use often. She told me that expressing understanding disarms anger. I hoped it would work.

"Do you? Do you understand?"

An obvious miscalculation. My words had only strengthened her storm. I sighed, exasperated. I noticed Augustus watching us, listening intently, while pretending not to.

"No," I admitted to her. "I guess I don't understand, but I would like to." My voice was small and contrite.

Just like that, the storm passed and her face calmed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to come off so angry. I'm really not like this all the time." She offered a meager smile. "My name is Sharon Cloverdale. I have—I mean _had_—a son named Michael. He was in the US Army Special Forces. Remember those bombings we had a while back in Chicago?"

I nodded. It was impossible to forget. Radical forces had bombed several major landmarks in the city, resulting in mass casualties. It was one of several precipitating events that sent our economy into a tailspin.

"After Chicago, he was selected to be part of the tactical team that went to the Middle East. He was given Emovere prior to his deployment. The doctors said it was their recommended prophylactic treatment for PTSD. No side effects."

Her face contorted with grief. "After that, I lost my son. He didn't die right away, but he was never the same. He walked around like a zombie, like there was nothing there anymore." She waved her hand in front of her face. "Then he killed himself—or at least, that's what we think. He drove his car into a wall."

"I'm so sorry," I said to her. "It might be hard for you to believe, but I know my mother is too."

She nodded, but I knew my words offered no comfort.

"I'm here for him," she said. "There are a lot of us here for someone. I hope you'll tell your mother that."

"I will," I called after her. She was already walking away.

I took a breath. Sharon's sorrow-fueled anger had stung just as if I had been slapped. I looked around the room. Only Augustus remained, but Quin lingered by the doorway, just within my sight. I was glad he hadn't left me alone with Augustus—something about him seemed false.

Still, I was inclined to believe his accusations against the government. When the economy collapsed, the government worked quickly to shore up the pharmaceutical companies. My mother often referred to these companies as the government's puppets because of the lucrative defense contracts they had been awarded. By that time, my mother had resigned from her position at Zenigenic. Her research had begun to suggest that Emovere could be highly addictive to some and induce aggressive episodes in others. When she approached the company with her concerns, they immediately demanded her resignation. So it wasn't a stretch to imagine the government partnering with the pharmaceutical industry to create an undefeatable and unempathetic soldier: fearless, aggressive, and unrelenting.

"A penny for your thoughts, Ms. Knightley." Augustus stood over me, looking down.

I chose my words carefully. "It's a lot to take in," I admitted, "but I'm not surprised."

"Well then, your mother has certainly taught you well." He paused, surveying the now-empty room. "Quin tells me that you have something for me . . . from your mother."

Again, my stomach flip-flopped. I hesitated but produced the flash drive from my pocket. I had been keeping it close to me. I could still remember the feel of my mother's hands as she pressed it into mine. She _had_ wanted the Resistance to have it.

I offered the flash drive to Augustus. As it was swallowed by his large hand, I immediately regretted surrendering it so easily.

"Who else knows about this?" Augustus asked.

"Just Quin," I said. I glanced toward the doorway, but he was gone.

"Let's keep it that way." Augustus' lips smiled as he spoke, but his eyes were dead and cold, faintly reptilian. I couldn't help but feel as if his words were a warning.

**Chapter Sixteen: Together?**

When I left the room, I was surprised to see Elana waiting for me. She was alone. I felt disappointed. I needed to talk to Quin.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," I lied.

As we walked back toward the control booth, Elana touched my arm. "I just wanted to apologize for earlier, for leaving like that."

"It's okay," I said. "You were just being a good friend to Quin." As I spoke the word, I immediately wondered if _friend_ was an accurate descriptor of their relationship.

"Quin has his moments," Elana chuckled.

"So are you two . . . _together_?" Inside, I cursed my own boldness. Though I wasn't entirely sure why, my breathing was momentarily suspended as I awaited her answer.

Elana laughed again, throwing her head back.

"Quin, Max, and I were all recruited at the same time," she explained. "I was only sixteen. I would be lying if I said that I didn't fall for him."

My heart dropped fast, like a hard stone down into my stomach.

"We had . . . a moment, if you want to call it that, but it didn't last long. I guess I needed a lot of reassurance, and Quin isn't exactly the reassuring type."

I looked at Elana . . . her face was radiant. _What could she possibly need to be reassured of?_ The girls I had known in school like her moved with a kind of effortless confidence. I could see now that Elana was not like that. Something deep inside her was broken.

"Quin has been through a lot," Elana said. "We all have, but Quin especially."

Elana sensed my curiosity.

"Be patient with him," she said gently, placing her hand on my shoulder. "He'll tell you. I can see that he wants to trust you."

Though I tried to hide it, I knew she could see how much I wanted to believe her.


	7. Chapters 17-19

** Chapter Seventeen: Sightseeing**

After I left Elana, I returned to the control booth. Quin and Max were exchanging a computer tablet between them, engrossed in a game of Scrabble.

Max glanced up and waved me over. "Here she comes, our local celebrity," he joked, his eyes twinkling at me.

Quin snickered.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head at them.

"We've been waiting for you," Max added. "Augustus wants us to take you on a quick tour of the city—a little sightseeing of the Guardians' handiwork."

I gave him a puzzled look, inwardly recoiling at the mention of Augustus' name.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You'll see," Max offered cryptically.

A few minutes later, they were both geared up, guns and walkie-talkies strapped to their waistbands. I still wanted to talk to Quin about the meeting, but I held back. I couldn't help but notice that he seemed less-than-excited about our excursion. He hardly spoke to me until we were outside, walking up Market Street, retracing our circuitous route from the night before. Making sure we avoided the surveillance cameras, Max walked a few steps ahead of us.

"Did you give Augustus the flash drive?" he asked me.

I nodded, still feeling annoyed with myself.

"So," he began, "your mother didn't tell you what was on it?" I was surprised at his interest.

"No," I replied. "My mother is kind of a mystery sometimes. She hasn't told me much about her work lately."

"Oh." Quin sounded disappointed.

His voice hesitant, he asked, "Does she still work with _criminals_?"

I turned to him, considering his face carefully. "Do you know a lot about my mother?" It seemed that he did.

Before Zenigenic, my mother had spent years studying criminals. She had developed a drug—Crim-X—for the government that was supposed to reduce crime by suppressing emotions like anger and excitement. Her work allowed for the release of many inmates previously evaluated as high risk.

A few years after the first group of five hundred inmates was released, one of the men, Inmate 243, committed murder. The other inmates were returned to prison, and the project was abandoned. My mother rarely spoke of that time in her life, even to me, so Quin's question was a curious surprise.

Quin shook his head rapidly. "Uh . . . no . . . not really. Just what I've heard," he stammered. I saw Max glance back at us, directing a raised eyebrow toward Quin.

Max's comment from the morning about Quin and my mother nagged at me. "What have you heard?" I asked.

Quin didn't answer. He pointed up ahead. "Stop one on your tour, Ms. Knightley," he announced.

Up ahead, I saw a familiar scene. It was the overturned, graffitied cable car at the intersection of Market and Powell Street. Max hoisted himself up on the car, showboating for a moment, his arms outstretched.

"Fellow San Franciscans, lend me your ears." Max's voice was intentionally dramatic.

I giggled, but Quin seemed perturbed.

"Max." Quin admonished with a disapproving look.

Almost immediately, Max jumped down, giving me a little bow. "Sorry, _Dad_," he said sarcastically, narrowing his eyes at Quin.

"Wasn't there a rally here a while before the city was evacuated?" I asked, vividly recalling an SFTV news broadcast from one of the protests where shooting had erupted in the crowd.

Quin nodded solemnly, something dark passing across his face.

"That's why Augustus wanted us to take you to this spot," Max explained. "A man was killed here during that rally. The Guardian Force made it look like the Resistance was responsible."

"How?" I asked, unable to conceal my bewilderment.

I noticed that Quin had walked away from us. He was standing on the sidewalk, absent-mindedly kicking at some of the debris with his boot.

Max glanced cautiously in his direction before answering. "By having one of the Guardians dress up as a protestor and fire the shot. That way, the public would fear the Resistance, and the government could justify their plan for evacuating the city."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, my eyes widening.

"It wasn't the only time," Max added. "There are a few more unfortunate stops on this tour."

I shook my head in disgust at everything I had learned today about the Guardian Force. I desperately wished I could talk to my mother. She would know what to do—she always did. I began to wonder if she had known all along about the true purpose of the Guardians.

Quin was already walking briskly ahead of us. I trotted to catch up to him.

"You never answered my question . . . about my mother," I reminded him.

"You're _persistent_, you know that?" Somehow, he made it sound like a bad thing. Even so, I nodded, smiling at him.

"What about your dad?" he asked, deliberately changing the subject. "I haven't heard _anything_ about him."

I furrowed my brow at Quin. "I wouldn't have to be so _persistent_, if you weren't so _evasive_," I teased.

"Fair enough," he said flatly.

Even though he didn't deserve a reply, I answered him anyway. "My dad left us when I was ten. My mom and I haven't heard from him since then. I wish there was more to tell."

Quin was silenced briefly by my revelation.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just assumed that . . ." He left his thought unfinished.

"My life was _perfect_?" I guessed at his assumption.

"Something like that," he admitted, shrugging.

Max stopped and pointed toward a building that had been gutted by fire. "Stop two," he told me.

"The Guardian Force set fire to this building," Max explained. "The government made sure that SFTV would publicly attribute the arson to the Resistance." He pointed to the red mark of the Resistance, blazing red on all the surrounding buildings.

Turning toward Quin, I carefully considered how to word my next question. "When you were a Guardian, did you ever _participate_?" I asked, gesturing to the building.

Quin's jaw tensed. I saw Max eyeing him closely, the way I had seen my mother watchfully attend to a boiling pot on the stove. There was no answer from Quin, but his silence spoke for him.

On our way back, Quin was distant, removed, even from Max. He walked ahead of us, brooding.

"Guess he didn't like the tour," Max joked with me, loud enough for Quin to hear him.

Quin turned, his expression softening. He caught my eye and winked at me conspiratorially as he grabbed Max, placing him in a pretend headlock.

"The tour was fantastic." Quin's voice was steeped with exaggerated excitement, and I giggled. Rubbing Max's head with his knuckle, he added, "It was the annoying tour guide I didn't like."

**Chapter Eighteen: Running**

I was sitting on my bed, holding my book open to the dog-eared page. Only my eyes were reading. My mind was in a million other places. I had been prepared to fear the Guardian Force, but I was unnerved by what I had learned. Whatever their purpose, they were ruthless. Even more surprising, I hadn't expected to distrust the leader of the Resistance, but Augustus had given me an uneasy feeling that I couldn't ignore. He seemed as smooth and slick as oil. Another lesson from my mother: Never disregard that small, but insistent voice inside of you.

And there was something else I kept turning over and over in my mind like a stone. Quin, Max, and Elana had all been recruited as teenagers by the Guardian Force: Max from a group home, Quin from the streets—and Elana, I was still uncertain about, though I knew that she had demonstrated resistance to Emovere. Perhaps it was only an unlucky coincidence, but I couldn't help but think that long before the Guardians came looking for them, each had experienced something painful, something that couldn't be taken back. _Was that why the Guardians had recruited them? _

Mid-thought, I was halted by Quin's voice.

"I'm taking Artos for a run. Do you want to come?" Quin stood in the doorway, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Artos was prancing, trying to contain his anticipation.

"Outside?"

"Not exactly." Quin smirked at me, running his hand through his dark brown hair, his eyes mischievous. I had to admit, Max was right—Quin was handsome—the unreachable kind of boy who, in my old life, I would have longed for from afar.

"I brought some clothes for you. These are Elana's." He held out a small bag with a shirt, shorts, and sneakers. "I'll meet you at the platform in ten minutes."

I felt eager to be alone with Quin. I was intent upon asking him about the meeting, but somewhere in my butterflied stomach, I knew that wasn't the only reason. When I arrived at the platform, Quin and Artos were standing below on the train tracks. Quin was jogging in place, holding a flashlight, and Artos was jumping eagerly next to him.

"Ready for this?" he asked me, his voice issuing a challenge. "I should warn you that I'm pretty fast."

"I would expect nothing less." I smiled at him.

Running through the tunnels was surprisingly exhilarating. Except for the small circle of light from Quin's flashlight, we were shadowed in darkness. After terrorizing a few unlucky birds, Artos trotted obediently next to us. Quin ran effortlessly. His breathing was steady and calm. I tried to match his pace, but he hadn't exaggerated. He _was _fast. After the first mile, Quin slowed his stride and turned to me.

"What did you think about the meeting?" he asked. I was surprised, but grateful that he had brought it up unprompted. He'd already been clear about his disdain for my _persistence_.

Uncertain how to sum up my thoughts for him, I began with the easiest question.

"Why did Augustus lie about how Elliot died?"

"He didn't lie," Quin replied. He kept running, his pace a steady trot.

After a few minutes of silence, I realized that Quin had no intention of offering more.

"You know, you don't have to make every conversation so difficult," I said, annoyed.

Quin stopped and turned to face me. "He didn't lie. He _wouldn't _lie." His voice was stern. "I told him that I killed Elliot."

"But why?" I asked.

"You ask that a lot, you know." I sensed that Quin wanted to trust me, but couldn't. His restraint protected him, like a turtle's shell hiding its soft underbelly.

"I know. Bad habit," I said. "But I'm trying to figure you out."

Quin took a breath. "I've done things, Lex, bad things. I've hurt people. If you knew what I did, you probably wouldn't like me."

I felt a dull ache, like a hammer strike to my chest, as I heard the shame in Quin's voice. I wanted to touch him, but I held back. "What makes you think I like you?" I asked, trying to lighten his mood.

Quin gave a half-hearted smile.

"I've hurt people too, you know," I said. I thought of Elliot, who was just a young man like Max or Quin, probably with a story equally as painful.

Quin nodded in agreement, but it seemed forced. As I turned from him, ready to resume our run, his voice stopped me.

"You don't hurt people, Lex. That's not what you do. That's what _I_ do, and that's why I lied." His voice was hard as nails, matter-of-fact, as if it was a speech he had practiced many times alone.

I offered no response. We ran another four miles in silence, both of us entirely alone with our thoughts. I remembered Elana's words. Quin _had_ been through a lot. The question was _what_?

** Chapter Nineteen: Bullet to the Head**

Quin and I returned to chaos, the hallways thick with the members of the Resistance. They were scrambling like ants. As we dodged anxious faces, I caught snippets of conversations. "Ten bodies . . . bullet to the head . . . Guardians . . ."

Quin and I exchanged a look.

"We should see Augustus." He said it without thinking, as if Augustus was the answer to every question. Quin wore his distrust for others like a badge, yet it appeared he trusted Augustus without exception. It worried me.

I followed Quin past the Map Room, down another long corridor, and through two more secured doors to a third. Outside, several armed members of the Resistance stood guard.

"Hey, Quin," a guard said in a low voice, gesturing us over. "We tried to find you. Augustus is meeting with the rest of the Council."

He opened the door and ushered us in.

Inside, around a large table, five chairs were filled. A sixth sat empty. Augustus presided at the head, of course. As we entered, I watched him cast a look of disappointment toward Quin. Immediately, Quin's shoulders slumped, his head hung downward like a scolded puppy. Just as he was about to take the sixth seat, which was meant for him, Augustus turned his cold eyes toward us and spoke.

"Mr. McAllister, would you care to enlighten us as to your whereabouts for the past hour?" Augustus' voice was different than before. He was no longer charming.

Quin avoided Augustus' eyes. "I'm sorry, Augustus. There's no excuse."

"You're right. There is no excuse."

His words cut Quin like the strike of a whip, fast and deep. Dr. Bell and Vera Bullock lowered their eyes, embarrassed for Quin. Only Cason continued to stare at him, a look of amusement on his face.

With that, Augustus was finished with Quin and turned his lash to me.

"Ms. Knightley, this meeting is for Council members only. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

I looked to Quin for support, but he refused to meet my eyes. I touched his shoulder gently, and he nodded at me, expressionless.

"Go," he said.


	8. Chapters 20-28

** Chapter Twenty: At Their Hearts**

Later that evening, the Resistance reconvened in the Map Room. I immediately noticed that Quin was absent. I found a seat next to Max and Elana.

"Where's Quin?" I asked with concern, unable to shake the way he had cowered to Augustus.

Max shook his head. "He's been restricted from the meeting. Punishment."

"_Punishment_?" I asked incredulously.

Elana nodded. "Augustus has always taken a _special_ interest in Quin." Her tone suggested disapproval. "Right after Augustus was elected, he found Quin living on the street. He made him the youngest Council member. I think Quin views him as a father."

Augustus cleared his throat and began speaking before she could say anymore. Cason joined him at the front of the room, his face chiseled and emotionless.

"Members of the Resistance, we have a matter of great concern. Today, during our regular patrols, we discovered the bodies of ten Guardian Force recruits washed ashore near Pier 33. Mr. Caruso has confirmed through his sources outside the city that at least five of them had been recently extricated from the Guardian program. We suspect, with further investigation, we will confirm that all of the casualties failed to meet Guardian Force standards and were rejected for further experimentation. Each was killed with a single bullet to the back of the head. As you know, this is the second such discovery in the past month. We believe that, by ordering these executions, the leader of the Guardian Force, General Jamison Ryker, has intended to send us a message. But we will not be deterred in our cause. "

I glanced at Max, remembering our conversation from the morning and the question I had left unasked. Now I had the answer and wished that I didn't.

Augustus continued, "I know that those of you who have defected are anxious to learn the identities of the victims. We will obtain and disseminate the information as soon as we are able."

From the back of the room, a man's thundering voice demanded, "What are we going to do about it?"

Another voice joined. "We can't just let them get away with it!"

And another shouted, "We've been passive for too long. What are we waiting for?"

Suddenly, the room was alive with anger. I snuck a look at Augustus. He appeared annoyed, as if he was in the middle of a swarm of mosquitoes that he couldn't swat fast enough.

"Quiet!" Cason's voice commandeered the crowd. Still, his face was stoic.

With the room momentarily silenced, Augustus spoke, raising his voice slightly—enough to appear powerful, but not so much as to seem threatening. I sensed that he was skilled at manipulation. "I understand all of your concerns. When you elected me your leader, you entrusted me to carry out the vision of the Resistance. An attack at this time would be unwise and would lead to the deaths of many of the Guardian Force, whom we know to be innocent victims of a cruel and dangerous experiment. We must be patient. When we are ready, we will strike them at their hearts."

After the meeting, I approached Augustus. In this public forum, I hoped he would wear his charming face.

"How can I help you, Ms. Knightley?" He was pleasant, but the tone of his voice suggested that he had no intention of helping me.

"I was hoping that I could speak to my mother and let her know that I've arrived safely. It's been almost a month since I saw her." I allowed my eyes to fill with tears.

Augustus looked directly at me, examining me. "I have already spoken with her. She is aware of your arrival."

I knew he was lying. I rapid-fired questions at him, but they fell away, leaving him unscathed.

"Why didn't you tell me? I have to talk to her. What did she say to you?"

No response.

"What's on that flash drive? I almost died getting it here. I have a right to know."

Nothing.

I felt a wave of rage swelling up inside me, crashing over my sadness, enveloping it. I quickly wiped away a tear.

"Ms. Knightley, this is a secure compound. We cannot risk our safety by overindulging our emotions. Your mother understands that. You would do well to follow her example. As long as it is safe to do so, you will speak to your mother soon. You have my word."

Afterward, I sat by myself on the floor in a corner of the room. The tile felt cold beneath my legs. I buried my face in my hands, my tears marking tiny tracks down my cheeks. All those nights in the empty library, and I had never felt so alone. I tried to imagine my mother's face, but it was blurred, misshapen, a puzzle I could no longer solve. I forced myself to consider the unthinkable—I might never see her again. The thought was nearly paralyzing, like sinking through cold mud. I wondered how long Quin had felt this way before he made an attempt to stop feeling entirely.

A cold nose touched my hand, and I looked up to see Artos' green eyes looking back at me. He licked my face, and I couldn't help but giggle. He plopped down beside me, giving me a long-tongued grin as I rubbed his belly and underneath his thick, nylon collar.

"He likes you," Quin remarked from the doorway.

I wiped my face on my sleeve, embarrassed. Quin sat down next to me on the floor, our legs almost touching.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"Nothing." I sounded like Quin.

"Now who's being difficult?" His boyish laugh soothed me. For a moment, I felt like everything that had gone wrong might be made right again.

"How did you find Artos?" I asked, still stroking his soft fur.

"_He_ found me. It was just after I escaped the Guardians. He started following me. I told him to go away, to go home, but he wouldn't stop. After a while, I didn't want him to go away."

Quin reached over and rubbed Artos' head. Artos leaned in, content. "I guess I'm like that with people too," Quin added, smiling at me.

"What happened today with Augustus?" I asked. "He treated you horribly."

Quin shrugged. "He didn't mean anything by it. He's just trying to help me. He's always been tough with me, but I know that he cares. If it wasn't for him, I don't know what would've happened to me. He told the Resistance they could trust me. Even though I had . . ."

He paused. I suspected he was censoring himself. "Even though I'd been a Guardian."

As Quin spoke, I began to understand Augustus' power over him. Whatever Quin had done, he'd convinced himself it was unforgivable.

Even if Quin didn't believe me, I knew I had to confide in someone. The weight of the last few days was too heavy to bear alone. I started with the flash drive and Augustus' warning and finished with his probable lie about my mother and his cold indifference to my tears. Quin listened intently.

When I finished, he tried to comfort me. "If Augustus gave you his word, then it will happen. I trust him, Lex."

Quin put his hand on my knee, sending a flutter through me as if he had softly blown on the dandelion pieces of my heart. It was the first time he'd touched me with intention. I noticed a small scar across his knuckles.

I wanted to ask him why he trusted Augustus—_why_, my favorite question—but I held back. I knew if I pushed him, the sliver of an opening in the wall of Quin would seal up again. Instead, I summoned all of my courage and placed my hand on his.

**Chapter Twenty-One: Empathy**

The following day, a dark unease settled over Resistance headquarters. I hardly left my room, but each time I did, I felt uncertainty hanging over me like a poisonous cloud. Although Augustus had been masterful in squashing the anger of the crowd, his stifling had driven it underground. Each time I entered the dining hall, I saw people huddled in tight groups, speaking purposefully. Unrest was snaking its way through the Resistance like a thick, unwieldy vine.

As for me, my own private upheaval continued. Mostly, I thought of my mother and the flash drive that I had surrendered to Augustus. Though its contents were a mystery to me, it was obviously of great importance to him. In the months following the evacuation of the city, my mother began spending more time alone in our garage, which my father had long ago converted to her office and laboratory. Sometimes she wouldn't emerge until late in the evening, her eyes red and underscored with dark circles. Once, only once, had I asked my mother what she was working on.

"It's better that you don't know, Lex," she said. "I want to protect you as long as I can. So many people have already been hurt."

At the time, I assumed she was thinking of my father and how her ambition had driven him away, pushing him to the periphery of her life until he had no choice but to disappear. But now, I was no longer certain.

Of course, I also thought of Quin. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the warmth of his hand under mine. The touch had lasted only a few seconds—one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three—before he had taken his hand away and stood to say goodnight. It was probably just a friendly gesture, his touching my knee. I told myself it meant nothing to him. Of course, to me, it meant the complete opposite of nothing, and I knew I was in trouble.

Seeking an escape from my nagging thoughts, I decided to explore the _compound,_ as Augustus had referred to it. I meandered past the dining hall and the armory. I knew where I was headed. The laboratory was locked, but I caught the eye of a middle-aged woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sitting in front of a computer screen. Hearing my knock, she rushed eagerly to the door.

"Ms. Knightley, it's an honor to meet you," she said. "I admire your mother's work."

I saw that she wore a badge with a familiar logo. Underneath, it read, _Carrie Donovan_. I pointed to it. "Are you Carrie?"

"Yes, of course. I'm so sorry. Carrie Donovan. This is my old work badge from Zenigenic. I wear it to remind me of the destruction science can cause if left unchecked by common sense." Tongue in cheek, she parroted the slogan, "_How do you want to feel today?"_

I chuckled. "I thought the logo looked familiar. How long did you work there?"

"Just one year. It was after your mother had . . . left." She politely omitted the word _resigned_. "My supervisor asked me to misrepresent some of our findings related to Emovere's side effects. When I refused, I was fired."

"What are you working on?" I asked.

"Let me show you," she said excitedly, gesturing me toward the computer. I could tell Carrie was a pure scientist at heart, eager to share her discoveries.

On the screen was a spreadsheet with copious amounts of data. In one of the columns, I instantly recognized a name, Elliot Barnes—the dead man.

"This is a compilation of the blood analyses for all deceased Guardian Force." She said the word _deceased_ matter-of-factly as if she was reading it from a book.

She pointed to several columns of the spreadsheet. "As you can see, over time, we have detected increasingly larger amounts of Emovere. In Elliot and the casualties discovered yesterday, the concentration was twenty times the prescribed dose."

I attempted to disguise my horror, but inside, I was aghast. _Twenty times_?

"But what's really interesting," she continued, "is this." She pointed to two additional columns marked _Agitor_ and _Substance X_.

As I studied the data curiously, the laboratory door opened and Vera Bullock bounced inside enthusiastically. She had the look of a first-grade teacher, small and plump, her cheeks like apples. Immediately, she walked over to us, nosily glancing over my shoulder at the spreadsheet.

"What are you up to, Alexandra?" she asked. Her tone implied that we knew each other well.

I considered her with uncertainty. She _seemed _harmless.

"Carrie was explaining some of the Guardian Force data that you've all been compiling." I glanced at Carrie nervously, fearing I had shared too much.

"My goodness," Vera replied, shaking her head. "I certainly hope she hasn't overwhelmed you. This information can be quite confusing, even distressing, for someone so young." She patted my shoulder gingerly as if I might break at any moment.

Carrie interrupted. "Luckily for her, Alexandra has had an exceptional teacher in her mother. I'm sure she can handle it. Now, if you'll excuse us, Vera . . ." Carrie turned the computer screen toward her, away from Vera's prying eyes.

Looking scolded, Vera slinked away from the computer and left the room without a word.

"Sorry about that. Vera can be a bit overbearing at times, but she means well."

Carrie turned her attention back to the columns of data. "As you know, we've also detected trace amounts of other emotion-altering drugs in the Guardian Force blood samples, including Agitor. We believe that, in combination with Emovere, Agitor may increase aggression."

I placed my finger on the screen. "What's Substance X?"

Carrie smiled. "That's the million-dollar question, Ms. Knightley. We don't know. Our working hypothesis is that it acts to impair the supramarginal gyrus."

I looked at her quizzically. "The supra-what?"

"I'm sorry," she said, flustered. "I keep forgetting you're not your mother." Carrie laughed, a nervous twitter.

She pointed to a diagram of the brain on the wall behind us. "The supramarginal gyrus is here," she said, putting her finger at the junction of the parietal, temporal, and frontal lobes of the brain.

"What does it do?" I asked.

Carrie paused for a long time. Unsmiling, she replied, "Empathy."

** Chapter Twenty-Two: Ambushed**

As I left the lab with the word _empathy_ drumming in my brain, I saw a group congregating near the outer door that led back to the platform. At the periphery were Max, Quin, and Elana.

I pulled Elana aside. "What's going on?"

She gestured toward a tall and wiry young man with dark-framed glasses. I glanced at his forearm. No tattoo. He was speaking to the group in a hushed tone.

"Markus is leading a small group to investigate the murders at Pier 33. He thinks there may be more . . . _bodies_. We're going with him," she said.

Markus admonished Elana with his stern brow. "It's supposed to be a _secret_, remember?" Looking to me, he added, "Augustus doesn't know."

Elana shrugged. "It's Lex," she said, as if that explained everything. "Besides, I thought she might want to come with us."

Though the idea of disobeying Augustus was appealing, the thought of encountering the Guardians was not. "Um . . . I don't know, Elana . . . I—"

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Quin interrupted.

"Why not?" I asked. Now that Quin had challenged me, I suddenly felt brave.

Quin seemed momentarily dumbfounded.

"He's _worried_ about you, _Alexandra_." Max teased.

I looked away from Quin, my cheeks reddening.

"Whatever." Quin replied dismissively, turning back toward the group.

Max winked at me. "Get this girl a weapon," he said, chuckling.

Markus handed me a gun. It was heavier than the one my mother had given me. I slipped the gun into my waistband carefully. The idea of firing a gun again unnerved me. But I wasn't about to let Quin see my uncertainty, and I could feel his eyes watching me.

"I think it's safe to leave now," Markus said, consulting his watch. "Augustus is scheduled to be at a meeting in the lab with Dr. Bell for the next hour."

Within a few minutes, we were outside, heading toward The Embarcadero. The fog had set in again, muting the sun with a cold, gray veil. As we neared the water, I could see rows of palm trees, their tall green stalks breaking through the cloud cover. Quin stayed noticeably close to me.

"I think we should split up to cover more ground," Markus said to the group. He pointed to Max, Quin, Elana, and me. "You four come with me. We'll check out Pier 33, while the rest of you head down toward Pier 39. Meet back at headquarters in twenty minutes."

When we arrived at the Pier 33 building, Quin touched my arm and whispered. "Be careful, okay?"

I nodded, feeling a surge of warmth. He _was_ worried about me.

From just behind me, Max muttered, "I told you."

"Shhh," Markus hissed. "I hear something."

From just inside the building, there was a rhythmic creaking, an eerie to and fro. The methodical squeak sliced the silence like a razor. _Ambush_. The thought—a hunch, really—came from nowhere, but it resonated through my body.

"Markus," I called, but he was already walking inside. Max and Elana followed him.

I turned to Quin. "What if the Guardians are expecting us?" I asked. He slid his gun from his belt, motioning for me to do the same.

Inside, it was so dark that, for a moment, I could barely see Quin in front of me. I squinted my eyes tight, waiting for them to adjust to the blackness.

Reaching behind him for my arm, Quin pulled me along. "Stay close," he cautioned. From up ahead, I heard the click of a flashlight and a gasp.

Markus was standing at the back of the building, holding the light to one of the metal rafters. Swaying back and forth, a rope around her neck, was a woman's body. On her Guardian Force uniform, the mark of the Resistance was painted in red, an obvious message. Her head hung down lifelessly so I couldn't see her face, but I imagined it was permanently frozen in terror.

Before I could react, a gunshot pierced the air. Markus fell to the ground, clutching his leg. His flashlight rolled into the center of the room before a big, black boot kicked it out of sight.

Quin and I ducked behind a row of shipping containers just in time to dodge a volley of gunfire that pinged against the metal crates. Our eyes connected in a moment of panic.

"We have to get out of here," I said.

Nearby, Max and Elana were concealed by a forklift. Markus was stumbling toward them, firing haphazardly over his shoulder. With relief, he slumped down next to Elana.

Quin fired several shots into the darkness. I kneeled next to him, aiming my gun at nothingness. With each successive squeeze of my trigger—one, two, three—I saw Elliot in my mind as he fell. After firing a few times, I sat back on the ground, frustrated with myself. Behind me, my hand touched something hard and rubbery—a tire.

"Any ideas?" Quin asked me, as he leaned from behind the containers to shoot again. Bullets whizzed by like attack bees, viciously stinging the air.

"_One . . ._ but it might not work." I pointed downward, lifting the thick tarp to show Quin my discovery—a car.

Quin nodded. "If it works, it's brilliant. If it doesn't, we'll die." He beckoned Max over to us, mouthing the word _run_.

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said, hoisting myself to a crouch and peering under the tarp.

As Quin fired, Max and the others ran toward us.

From the dark corner opposite our hiding place, a Guardian emerged. She stalked toward us, blank-faced, glass-eyed, launching bullet after bullet. When she drew closer, I could see a trail of blood circling her neck, her flesh splayed. Ignoring her wounds, she advanced her fearless onslaught with no apparent concern for herself. Quin took cover, his gun empty, just as Max fired a shot. Her body struck the ground with a sickening thump.

I looked at Quin with relief.

"That was a little too close for comfort," Max said, exhaling. "I hope you two have a plan. I'm almost out of ammo, and I can't even see who I'm shooting at."

"Are you okay?" Quin asked Markus, considering his wounded leg with concern.

Markus shrugged, but his face was contorted in pain. "It's just a graze, but I've been better."

Another round of bullets struck the forklift—their _rat-tat-tatting_ was deafening.

"_This_ is the plan," Quin announced, pointing to the car, still concealed beneath its cover.

"A _tarp_?" Max asked with disbelief. "A tarp is the plan?" He lifted his head and returned fire.

"It's a car," I told Max.

Deftly, Quin scooted beneath the tarp and out of sight. I heard the click of the door handle opening. Then Quin's voice. "No keys."

"Check under the mat," Max offered.

A few seconds later, Quin's hand appeared from under the tarp. In it was a single key.

One by one, we climbed inside the dark tomb of the car. Max was last. He continued firing until he was out of ammunition. I wedged myself next to Elana in the passenger seat, listening to her rapid breathing.

"Here goes," Quin said. "Get down and hold on tight."

Lowering my head beneath the dashboard, I held my breath until I heard the engine roar to life. Overshadowing its melodious sound was gunfire. I braced myself as Quin floored the accelerator—tires screeching—torpedoing us blindly from the building, casting the tarp high up into the air.

I didn't look up or open my eyes until the car stopped a block from Resistance headquarters. Even so, I knew we were going fast. Each breakneck turn pressed against my body forcefully as if I was being pushed.

We bailed out quickly and ran the rest of the way, Markus leaning on Max and Quin. The other group who had accompanied us was already waiting just outside the door, their faces quizzical and alarmed.

"What are you going to tell Augustus?" I asked Markus, once we were safely inside.

Glancing sidelong at Quin, Max suggested, "I think you should tell him you got hit by a reckless driver."

Quin volleyed back at him. "You have to admit, if we hadn't almost died, that would've been kind of fun."

I narrowed my eyes at Quin skeptically. _Fun?_

"How'd you learn to drive like that?" I asked.

Quin grinned back at me slyly, but didn't answer.

Max chuckled. "What is that old saying? _Drive it like you stole it. _You know something about that, right, Quin?"

Quin shook his head, laughing. Apparently, in another life—the one I could only guess about—he had been a car thief. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Like a lot of things about Quin, it was double-edged, both exciting and unnerving.

Turning his eyes to me, Quin's smile softened. "That was a really good idea, Lex. I'm glad you came."

"Looks like she didn't need protecting after all," Max said, punching Quin in the arm playfully.

I waited for Quin to agree. He said nothing, but even better—_so_ _much better_—he slipped his arm around my shoulders and gave me a tight squeeze.

My contentment evaporated like smoke when I saw Augustus and Cason standing by the platform, glowering. They were already lecturing Markus as we approached.

Augustus addressed Quin, "Were you involved in this unauthorized mission as well, Mr. McAllister?"

Quin gave a solemn nod.

Shaking his head disapprovingly, Augustus said, "You continue to _disappoint _me, Quin." Augustus seemed to have masterful command of all of Quin's buttons, pushing them at will.

"And Ms. Knightley, Ms. Hamilton, were you involved as well?"

Cason laughed, appraising Elana and me with a patronizing once-over. "Doubtful," he concluded.

I looked down at my feet. Before either of us could answer, Quin spoke for us. "No, they weren't there."

I started to protest, but Augustus turned back to Markus and Quin, apparently satisfied. "Well then, let's discuss your transgressions in my office . . . _in private_."

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Blackout**

I was returning to my room the following evening when the Resistance went dark. The blackouts had been more frequent in the last few days, usually lasting two or more hours. During an outage, we were instructed to return to our sleeping quarters since each room was equipped with a battery-powered lantern. As I fumbled with my flashlight, I heard a familiar voice in my ear.

"Meet me at the entrance in five minutes." It was Quin.

Five and a half minutes later, I stood with Quin, outside headquarters for the third time since my arrival. We had exited through a side door, marked EMERGENCY ONLY, the alarm dead, along with the lights. The frigid evening air was a shock to my body, but it felt invigorating. Quin shivered and zipped the leather jacket he had been wearing the night we met.

"I want to show you something," he said, "but we have to be fast."

"Are you sure you want to do this, Quin? Augustus is already furious with you."

He shrugged. "He'll get over it. Besides, as long as we're back before the power comes on, we have nothing to worry about."

We speed-walked for more than a mile into the heart of the city. I followed closely behind Quin. We cautiously dodged the cameras' all-seeing eyes, even though it was likely the blackout had cut the Guardians' surveillance feed. As we neared Telegraph Hill, the path grew increasingly steeper. My legs burned, and the frigid air stung my lungs.

Quin shined his flashlight upward, spotlighting Coit Tower, which shot up into the evening sky like the tail of a comet. Not even this once-majestic landmark had escaped destruction. At the base of the tower, I could see graffiti and crumbling rock. Quin pushed his shoulder into the tower's door several times before it opened with a thud. Inside, the air was stale and bitterly cold.

"This way." Quin pointed up a spiraling staircase. When we reached the observation deck, Quin extinguished his flashlight. The soft glow from the setting sun barely illuminated the city. From up here, I could almost forget the desolation below. But as I looked toward the Bay Bridge, I gasped. The reports that my mother and I had heard were correct. The highway was split into two distinct pieces with only sky in between them. A portion of the bridge had fallen away and was frozen in a sharp descent toward the water.

I looked over my shoulder expecting to see Quin, eager to ask him about the bridge. But he was kneeling on the opposite end of the deck in a spot where the concrete was broken away.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Quin didn't answer, but began moving aside some of the broken pieces of stone. The sky was almost dark now, concealing him in shadow. I saw him slip something into his jacket, then pick up another smaller object before standing to face me.

"You said that you couldn't figure me out. That's because you don't know anything about me." Quin took a step toward me, his hand extended. "_This_ is something about me." He handed me a book of poetry. It was so well-worn that its cover was soft.

"It was my mother's," he said. "Just like your book. This is the only part of her I have left. Before I joined the Guardians, I used to come up here a lot to escape from the world. Right after I went AWOL, I hid the book here. I figured it would be safer."

I knew Quin had hidden something else here—_something_ he had concealed in his jacket. But I bit my tongue, holding my question until the time felt right.

Just like my book, Quin's book had a dog-eared page. I flipped to it: Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken."

"Was this her favorite?" I asked.

Quin smiled. "No, it's mine."

"I never figured you for a poet," I joked.

Quin laughed, but only for a moment. Then his face became serious. "There's _a lot_ you don't know about me, Lex. I'm sorry that I haven't . . . that I couldn't . . . that I can't . . . be more . . . open with you." His face looked defeated as he stumbled over his words.

I shrugged, giving him a sympathetic smile. "You're trying, Quin. That counts for something."

He gave a half-hearted nod. I handed back his mother's book, and he pocketed it inside his jacket.

"Have you ever taken Emovere?" he asked.

"Never," I answered. I was surprised by the directness of his question. "What's it like?"

He sighed. "At first, it's exhilarating, freeing. You feel like nothing can stop you, like something heavy was lifted from your shoulders, and you can stand up tall again."

Quin paused, choosing his words carefully, "With everything that had happened to me, it was a welcome relief. But after a while, you just feel numb, even after you stop taking it. The worst part is that it starts to feel good to be numb."

I was surprised by his description. Even though my mother's research had shown that Emovere could be addictive, no published studies had found any lasting effects once the drug was discontinued. I wondered if the pharmaceutical companies were experimenting with the drug's composition. I made a mental note to ask Carrie later.

"That's not supposed to happen," I said.

"I know," Quin conceded. "When I was recruited by the Guardians, they assured me I could stop at any time, that there would be no side effects. But there's a reason no one else has left the Guardian Force. No one wants to stop taking Emovere."

"Do you know why you were recruited by the Guardians?" I had to know if Quin shared my hypothesis that the Guardians selected vulnerable candidates, young people who had suffered trauma.

"I have a pretty good idea," Quin answered cryptically. The tone of his voice was final, like the shutting of a door, and I knew that the subject was closed.

"It's taken me a long time to _want_ to _feel_ again," he said. "That's part of the reason why I'm so . . ." He searched for the right word.

"Difficult?" I smiled at him, remembering the night that we met.

"I thought you were supposed to come up with a better word," he teased.

Laughing, I turned back toward the city, placing my hands on the concrete railing. By now, the sun had fallen almost completely below the horizon. "How about _complicated_?" I offered.

As I spoke, I could feel Quin approaching from behind. He came close and then closer, standing directly behind me, but not touching me. The warmth of his body radiated in the space between us. I had a flash of my first kiss, my _only_ kiss. I closed my eyes and stood very still, hoping that if I didn't move, Quin wouldn't either. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, and he was gone. The cold air rushed in behind me.

"Lex, we have to go."

"I know," I said, recalling Augustus' verbal lashing after our last venture beyond headquarters. We began to walk toward the staircase.

"Hey," I said, "what else did you put in your jacket?"

Quin chuckled. "You're pretty hard to keep secrets from, you know."

I raised my eyebrows at him with expectation.

"It's something else about me," he offered. "But I'm not ready to show you yet. One step at a time, okay?"

Just before we began our descent, I watched in alarm as across the city in small, random pockets, lights began to flicker.

**Chapter Twenty-Four: A Boy's Weakness**

For the second time that week, Quin and I ran side by side, this time with urgency. Unlike before, I had no trouble matching his pace. Adrenaline was coursing through me, my legs fueled by panic. No matter how fast we ran, I knew the damage was already done. Once the power was restored, the silent alarm from the emergency exit door would have sent an alert straight to Augustus. He would be waiting for us.

As we turned the final corner toward headquarters, a voice stopped my heart. Twenty feet behind us stood a man, a Guardian. For a moment, I couldn't feel my body. It seemed like my head had detached itself and was floating away.

"You're under arrest by order of the Guardian Force." The man's voice sounded as flat as a cracker, but his lips were turned in an unnatural smile. Immediately, I wondered what combination of Emovere, Agitor, and Substance X had created his eerie mismatch of emotion.

The man continued walking methodically toward us, his gun raised and ready to fire. I glanced at Quin. His face was the same as the night we had met, tight and hardened. Just as the man was within an arm's length, Quin turned suddenly, grabbed and twisted the man's hand, and struck him in the face. The gun clunked down the sidewalk, and I ran to retrieve it.

When I turned back, Quin had pinned the man to the ground with his knee and was pointing his own weapon at the man's head. Though he struggled, the man had no expression. He wasn't fearless, which might imply that he was brave. Nor proud, which might imply that he was a martyr. Nor apathetic, which might imply that he harbored a death wish. He was simply a blank slate. I tried to remember the face of the man stepping from the ledge during my mother's clinical trial. Had he been _so_ expressionless?

Quin looked me, his eyes pained. "Run, Lex," he said, in a quiet voice that was more suggestion than command.

I didn't run, and I didn't turn away. I readied myself for the gunshot that never came.

Instead, Quin hit the man across the face with the end of his weapon, rendering him unconscious. He stood and walked to me. "I can't shoot him," he confessed. He sounded surprised, as if he was observing some other, unexpected version of himself.

"It's okay," I reassured him.

"_Is it_, Ms. Knightley?" From behind us, another voice, this one familiar.

Augustus didn't wait for my response. Without hesitating, he approached the Guardian and shot him, once, twice, three times. After the first shot, the man's body contorted, and I turned away, flinching with each successive explosion. When I finally looked at Augustus, he appeared satisfied, but bored, as if he had completed some mundane activity, like drinking his morning coffee.

"I hope it was worth it, Ms. Knightley." Augustus addressed only me, as if Quin was invisible. I knew his indifference would hurt Quin more than even his harshest words.

Augustus turned and pointed with intention back toward headquarters. We both began walking. He continued speaking, still addressing me alone. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been _forced_ to shoot someone? Is this the sort of thing you bring out in others, Ms. Knightley?"

We entered through the emergency door. Two armed members of the Resistance stood inside, while a third exited. I assumed he was tasked with managing the body.

"Since your arrival here, you have compromised the security of this compound on multiple occasions. You have taken advantage of a boy's weakness." He glanced at Quin, waiting to see the stinging bite of his words as they made impact.

Quin looked pale. I was surprised when he spoke. "It's not her fault, Augustus. I asked her to leave with me. It was _my_ decision. Besides, no one _forced_ you to kill him."

Augustus pretended that Quin was on mute, but I felt a small surge of elation—Quin had finally stood up to Augustus, if only for a moment.

Augustus turned to the armed men. "Please escort Ms. Knightley back to her sleeping quarters."

I began walking down the long corridor, one man on either side of me. When we reached the door, I turned back to look at Quin before they shuffled me away. Augustus was facing him, speaking quietly. I couldn't hear him, but I didn't need to. Whatever he was saying had been carefully honed to a point, cold and sharp as a blade, each word a knife strike to Quin's heart.

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Worst Thing**

In the three days that followed, most of the Resistance began to subtly avoid me. I wasn't sure what Augustus had told them, but the day after the blackout, there had been a meeting in the Map Room. I wasn't invited. I was certain Augustus had used me as a distraction, a way to refocus the Resistance and quell their dissidence. I spent most of my time with Elana and Max, who thankfully ignored whatever lies Augustus had manufactured. I was concerned their loyalty might place their positions in jeopardy. But they reassured me that, in time, Augustus would forgive me as would everyone else.

_Forgive_—that word burned like acid in my throat. Though Augustus' opinion was as useless to me as a single shoe, I had already learned the most important principle of my new home: So goes Augustus, so goes the Resistance.

Quin was avoiding me too, sort of. The day after Coit Tower, Max told me that Augustus had warned Quin about seeing me alone again. Augustus believed that Quin was changing and not for the better. I wondered what Quin believed. When we were in a room together, I often caught him looking at me. His gaze intense, but warm. He instantly pretended to be doing something else, avoiding my eyes. Max and Elana noticed too.

The three of us sat together in the dining hall. Quin several tables away, alone.

"Is it me or is Quin totally checking you out right now?" Max teased.

I blushed. As I slowly turned my head to look, Quin quickly got up from the table and left the room. Max and Elana laughed loudly.

"I'm glad you both find this so funny," I said sarcastically, smiling at them.

"It's just that Quin doesn't act this way . . . _ever_," Elana observed. I wondered if she was remembering her _moment_ with sixteen-year-old Quin.

As she spoke, Markus walked up from behind her. His leg was wrapped in a thick bandage, still healing from his encounter with the Guardian Force.

"Hi, Elana," he said, glancing over his shoulder and winking at her. Just as she had that first day I met her, Elana tensed. She was as still and watchful as a small animal in the woods anticipating the first sign of danger.

"Hi, Markus," she said, not looking at him.

After Markus passed by, taking a seat at another table, Max spoke, "He's not going to bite you, Elana. At least, not yet." Chuckling to himself, he nudged her in the side with his elbow, and she playfully nudged him back, her uneasiness gone.

After lunch that afternoon, Elana asked if we could speak alone. We returned to my room.

"Has Quin told you about himself yet?" Elana asked.

"Partly," I said, unsure if that was even true. "A small part."

"Well, that's more than he shares with most. It's one of the things that Quin and I have in common. We hide our true selves, even from the people who care about us. That's actually why I wanted to talk to you."

"Okay," I said. I was deeply curious. In some ways, Elana was more guarded than Quin, relying on her outer beauty as a convenient and glittering diversion.

"I have a theory," she explained. "The Guardians chose me for a reason. The same reason they chose Max and Quin and all the others."

I nodded, and Elana continued.

"When I was a little girl, I was a free spirit. I was always dancing or skipping or hopping, never _walking_ anywhere. I loved horses. I rode every day." Elana spoke slowly, as if she was sifting through stacks of old memories. "I was seven when my grandfather started touching me. At first, he told me it was a game. I _loved_ games. While my grandmother was picking tomatoes, he told me to find him, and I did. He was in the bedroom. Afterward, he cried and told me I was so beautiful, the most beautiful little girl he'd ever seen. I thought that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. Like everybody gets a _worst thing_, you know, and that was mine."

Elana paused to look at me as if she was afraid of my reaction. I sensed she had told this story before, maybe more than once, to someone who didn't understand. Elana's eyes were brimming with tears, but she didn't allow them to fall.

"I was fourteen when it happened again," she said. "Everybody says it's not your fault, but when it keeps happening to you, you start to wonder. I was at a party, drunk. There was this boy I liked. He and his friends used their cell phones to video me doing stuff with them, sexual stuff. They posted it online. It was everywhere. After that, I thought there was no way I could live in this world, like I was an alien. Once I thought of jumping from the Golden Gate, just stepping right out into the fog and disappearing, but I couldn't. That's when I did _this_."

She pointed to a scar that traced its way like a tiny river across her right wrist. I hadn't noticed it before. I had always been drawn to her left arm, the one marked with the Guardian badge.

At that moment, I most wished I was my mother. If there was a right thing to say, she would have said it. Instead, I put my arm around Elana.

"Do Max and Quin know?"

"Sort of," she said. "They know about what happened when I was a little girl. It seems so long ago, like it happened to someone else. I couldn't tell anybody here about the other thing, but sometimes I feel like people know just by looking at me." Elana's shame was tangible. It marred her face like a corrosive acid seeping from her pores.

"Do you think the Guardian Force knew about what happened to you?" I was starting to reconsider my mother's theory that the government monitored and mined electronic data to keep a close watch over its citizens. I had always rolled my eyes, dismissing my mother, but Elana's story made me wonder.

Elana nodded. "When the Guardians recruited me, just like Max and Quin, they told me they had been watching me, that they knew things about me, that I was smart and brave. Of course, I wanted to believe them. But I think what they knew was that I wanted to escape more than anything else—not leave, like run away—but escape from everything inside me."

I sighed. "Emovere."

"Exactly."

** Chapter Twenty-Six: The Second Time**

After my conversation with Elana, my mind was on autopilot, replaying her story again and again. If Elana and I were correct, then the Guardian Force recruited only trauma survivors. They were especially vulnerable because Emovere suppressed fear and self-doubt in all its forms. If the recruits weren't rejected by the Guardian Force when they failed to meet its impossible standards, by the time they wanted out—_if_ they wanted out—it was probably too late. Elana had told me that, like Quin, both she and Max had experienced intense withdrawals from Emovere.

I headed to the laboratory to talk to Carrie, hoping she could support my hunches with something tangible, something scientific. When I knocked, Carrie hesitated, a look of concern on her face. She approached the door with caution as if I was contaminated.

"I'm not supposed to let you in here," she said, her voice meek. "Augustus told us you put the Resistance in danger with your poor judgment."

"Do you believe him?"

"Augustus doesn't lie," she said matter-of-factly.

I was beginning to wonder what sort of strange voodoo Augustus practiced. It seemed that his scheming was completely invisible, cloaked in equal parts by his charm and confidence.

"I don't want to get in trouble," Carrie whispered. "I'm already a bit of an outcast here," she said, pointing to her Zenigenic badge.

I could see I wasn't going to win this argument. "I don't want you to get in trouble, Carrie. I just wanted to talk with you about a few things."

We stood at the door while I told her about my theory about the Guardian Force's recruiting strategy and what Quin had shared about Emovere's lasting side effects. She listened intently, nodding as I spoke.

Before I finished, Carrie interrupted. Her voice suddenly sounded stilted and rehearsed. "I'll have to talk to you later, Lex."

Behind me, a man in a lab coat approached. Flanking him were two Council members, Vera and Dr. Bell. Their eyes darted between me and Carrie, then exchanged a look of concern.

"Later," I agreed.

On my way back to my room, Max stopped me. "Lex!" he called out from the control booth, gesturing me over with his hand. "I was just about to look for you. I thought you should know that Quin is taking Artos for a walk in the tunnels . . . _right now_."

"Why would I want to know that?" Quin had expressed no interest in talking to me in thirty-six hours.

Max said nothing more, but grinned and handed me a flashlight.

I walked to the platform. Ensuring that I was alone, I jumped down and headed into the tunnel. I walked quickly. The anticipation of seeing Quin was like a steady drum pounding in my chest. After about fifteen minutes, I saw a flashlight up ahead flick on and off, on and off, and on. Quin.

Artos bounded toward me, his wagging tail a giveaway for his pure exuberance.

"Sit," Quin instructed him, and Artos reluctantly lowered himself to the ground. Quin was standing near the side of the tunnel, his flashlight illuminating part of his face. As I got closer, I could see his skin was smooth, freshly shaven. I took a position opposite him, near the other wall. He turned off his flashlight, leaving my single beam of light streaming between us.

"Hey," I said softly.

"Hey, yourself."

I smiled. It was impossible to be mad at him.

Right away, his words surprised me. "I had to see you," he said. "I'm sorry that I've been avoiding you. Augustus thinks that—"

I interrupted him. "I know what Augustus thinks, Quin. What do _you_ think?"

Quin took a step toward me. "Remember the other thing that I put in my jacket? I want you to see it." He handed me a small computer tablet. I started to open it.

"No," he said panicked. "Don't look at it now."

"Okay. What is it?"

"It's everything. It's me . . . kind of like _The Book of Quin_." We both laughed. "It's my file from the Guardian Force. I stole it when I ran away." Quin paused. "I'll understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore after you read it."

"Quin," I said his name gently, but firmly. "That's not possible, no matter what it is." With one hand, I cradled the tablet close to my body, holding my flashlight in the other.

Quin took another step toward me and then another, until we were almost touching. He leaned toward me, and I breathed in summer and a hint of shaving cream. From the moment we had sat side by side on my bed on the night we met, some part of me knew that Quin would _happen_ to me. He was unavoidable.

"I really want to kiss you right now," he whispered.

Little jolts of electricity pinged through me. "Are you asking my permission?"

"No." He smirked. "Just giving you fair warning."

I nodded, suddenly feeling nervous. "I might be really bad at it," I said. In my mind, I silently added . . . _not like Elana _and _it_'_s only my second kiss_.

"Lex, that's not possible," he said mimicking my earlier words. Quin reached down the length of my arm, letting his fingers lightly graze my wrist. He clicked off my flashlight, leaving us in darkness. A current of anticipation hummed between us like a live wire. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand—his lips were soft and warm.

I dropped my flashlight. I don't think Quin even noticed. Reaching just underneath his shirt, I pulled him closer to me. His skin radiated heat. Quin sighed softly in my ear, his kisses becoming more insistent. Then, suddenly, he stopped, taking a step away from me. He turned his flashlight on and, for a moment, the light shined directly on me, a jarring spotlight.

"What's wrong? Why did you stop?" I asked, instantly feeling foolish.

Quin's face was clouded, a sign of a storm brewing within. "I don't know. I guess I just don't want to hurt you."

Thinking of the tablet I held in my arm, I reached for Quin's hand, taking it in mine. Even more than hurting me, I suspected he feared something else—being unlovable.

"We can go slow," I said, reassuring both of us.

We walked back together until we reached the part of the tunnel where the platform's lights started to cast a glow.

Quin spoke, "We should probably go separately from here. There's a Council meeting tonight."

"Right." I agreed, but nonetheless, his eagerness to please Augustus irritated me.

Before I left, Quin gently nudged me with his elbow and grinned. "You know, you _were_ pretty bad at that. I think you're gonna need a lot more practice." He winked at me.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Book of Quin**

I practically ran back to my room. I couldn't wait to open the tablet that contained the _whys_, the clues to finally solve the mystery that was Quin. And he was a mystery to me, _most of all_ _to me_. But as soon as I got back, I felt hesitant. _What if Quin was right? What if he had done something unforgivable? _

I closed my eyes. I could still smell Quin on my clothing . . . could still feel his need, so insistent. I remembered what Elana had told me about falling for Quin. Like Elana, I felt myself tumbling down in a delicious and dizzying spin that I didn't want to stop. Whatever it was, I could accept it. I opened _The Book of Quin_.

On the first screen in large block letters, it read:

**Property of the United States Federal Government, Guardian Force**

_Unauthorized possession of this tablet is a federal offense punishable by a $250,000 fine or a minimum of seven years in a federal penitentiary. _

"Great," I said aloud to myself—another felony. I scrolled to the next page. At the top, it was marked with the badge of the Guardian Force. It read:

**Name: Quin Evan McAllister**

**Identification Code: Legacy 243**

**Date of Birth: 6/6/2021**

**Recruitment Date: 1/12/2038**

**Age: 16**

**Height: 6'2"**

**Weight: 180 lb.**

**Full Scale IQ: 130 (high average to superior range)**

**Skills Test Results**

**Pre-Protocol**

**Post-Protocol**

**Propensity to aggression**

**80****th**** percentile, high average**

**95****th**** percentile, superior**

**Risk-taking behavior**

**85****th**** percentile, high average**

**99****th**** percentile, superior**

**Problem-solving**

**95****th**** percentile, superior**

**No change**

**Empathy**

**85****th**** percentile, high average**

**60****th**** percentile, average**

**Verbal communication**

**30****th**** percentile, low**

**No change**

**Athleticism**

**98****th**** percentile, superior**

**99****th**** percentile, superior**

**Leadership**

**95****th**** percentile, superior**

**No change**

As I read, I couldn't help but smile. That was Quin alright. I could only assume "post-protocol" implied post-Emovere. Based on Quin's results, it seemed that whatever drugs he had been administered increased his aggression and his propensity to take risks, while decreasing his capacity to understand the feelings of others. I thought of my mother's early research with criminals. Individuals who met the criteria for psychopathy often demonstrated those same qualities. I wondered if Substance X had been part of Quin's protocol, but even more, I wondered if the effects were permanent.

The next few pages were highly technical and difficult to understand, but they appeared to describe the laboratory findings associated with Quin's response to Emovere. The top of each page was marked with Zenigenic's logo. I was relieved there was no mention of Agitor or any other emotion-altering substance.

Next was a response to Quin's requests for release from the Guardian Force.

**Dear Mr. McAllister,**

** This is to confirm that you requested your release from the Guardian Force on 10/5/40, 11/2/40, and 12/30/40. Unfortunately, your requests have been denied based on the terms of your contract. This letter serves as a reminder of your agreement of confidentiality with regard to all matters related to your service in the Guardian Force. Any breach of this agreement is a federal offense and is punishable based on the terms of your contract. Additionally, we would like to remind you of your contractual obligation to consent to the administration of Emovere and any other substances we deem related to the success of your mission. We thank you for your service to your country and wish you continued success as a Guardian.**

** Sincerely, **

** General Jamison Ryker**

I continued to the next page. There was a picture attached, marked with a time stamp—10/3/40—shortly before Quin's first request for release. It appeared to be taken at a riot on Market Street. As I examined the image more closely, I gasped. Standing on a car and holding a rifle was a wild-eyed Quin. His Guardian tattoo was covered with a red bandana, and he wore the mark of the Resistance on his shirt. He was barely recognizable. The attached document read:

**On 10/3/40, Legacy 243 was given orders to carry out a confidential mission at a Resistance protest rally. Prior to the mission, Legacy 243 was administered 500 milligrams of Emovere. Legacy 243 completed his mission without error. He is to be commended for his service and advanced in the program.**

As I scrolled the next few pages, I saw several similar notations, dated 10/31/40 and 11/29/40. Attached to those documents was an Internet article documenting a shooting death and a serious gunshot wound, both of which occurred at protest rallies in San Francisco. The article indicated that the shooter's identity was unknown, but he was believed to be a member of the Resistance.

I took a breath. Quin _had_ hurt people—for the government in order to make it appear that the Resistance was dangerous. As Max had explained during our morbid sightsee, if the public feared the Resistance, it would confirm the need for the Guardian Force and help to promote the government's hidden agenda. Quin's demeanor that day—mercurial and reluctant—made complete sense now.

On the next page, I saw a picture of Quin, dated 6/1/35, at age thirteen. He wasn't smiling, and his eyes were troubled. Attached was his juvenile criminal history. He had many arrests for trespassing, shoplifting, vandalism, auto theft, and loitering. His last arrest, at age fourteen, was for destruction of property. He had punched his fist through the wall at the Riverbend Home for Boys, causing several hundred dollars in damage and requiring stitches in his hand. I thought of the thin scar on Quin's knuckles, and then the one on Elana's wrist. No matter how hard they had tried to escape it, the past had left its mark.

Beginning at age seven, Quin had been in foster care—at least five homes, most of which he ran away from. In one of the reports, his foster mother noted, "Quin has two personalities. Sometimes he's a little boy, always wanting my attention. At other times, he's moody, like a powder keg, ready to explode at any minute."

Most of his foster parents agreed that Quin pushed them away before they ever had a chance to get to know him. That sounded familiar. When Quin turned sixteen, he escaped from Riverbend a final time, and his case was closed. I suspected he had run away to San Francisco.

Quin's school records were spotty, his grades all over the map. His report cards had a theme: Shows promise, has potential, but doesn't apply himself. Quin changed schools a lot, and he had a lot of absences. In the fifth grade, and again in the seventh, he was suspended for fighting. His eleventh-grade report card was his last.

Quin had been evaluated by a parade of psychologists. By the time he was fourteen, Quin was labeled with a plethora of disorders, including reactive attachment disorder, bipolar disorder, attention deficit disorder, and posttraumatic stress disorder. Most of the reports appeared to concur that Quin, the adolescent, had been irrevocably shaped when he was just a boy.

The next page was older, its type antiquated. It was a Los Angeles County police report dated 5/23/28. Quin was almost seven. It read:

** On 5/23/28, Officer Rollins responded to the 700 block of Willow Court at 1800 hours, after receiving a 911 call with a report of a domestic disturbance. Upon arrival at the scene, Officer Rollins made contact with suspect George McAllister and his sons, Quin McAllister (age six) and Colton McAllister (age two). The minors were unharmed and were immediately placed in the care and custody of Los Angeles County Child Protective Services. **

** Officer Rollins observed that Mr. McAllister's clothing was covered in blood. Inside the home, officers located the body of the victim, Angela McAllister (wife of the suspect). A knife lying near the body also was secured as evidence. Upon observation, pending the coroner's report, Mrs. McAllister evidenced at least ten stab wounds to the upper torso and neck. **

** Mr. McAllister spontaneously reported to Officer Rollins that he stabbed his wife during an argument, after he returned home to discover her talking on the telephone to another man while his sons played unsupervised in the next room. Mr. McAllister also advised investigators that he is a participant in a government research trial, taking the prescription drug, Crim-X. His medication was seized into evidence. Mr. McAllister was placed under arrest and transported to the Los Angeles County Jail. **

There was more in this section, but I couldn't read it. I didn't have to—I already knew. Quin's father was Inmate 243, making Quin _Legacy _243. Max had been right. My mother would want to meet Quin. After all, he was part of her legacy too.

I wondered if any other Legacies had been recruited for the Guardian Force. It made sense. If the government wanted to find trauma victims, what better place to start than with the children of inmates who were at high risk for violence? The idea was sinister, twisted, but brilliant.

There was also a picture—a mug shot—of George McAllister. He was handsome. He had Quin's strong jaw, but his eyes were not Quin's. They were small and black, like marbles.

Next, was a Child Protective Services document confirming the termination of parental rights for George McAllister, followed by a certificate of adoption for Colton. Quin's brother had found a permanent family when he was just two. Quin had been left completely alone.

The final pages of the tablet were the hardest to read. They were written by my mother: confidential psychiatric evaluations of George McAllister both prior to and following his experimental release from prison, after he had fatally stabbed his wife. According to my mother, Mr. McAllister likely suffered from psychopathy, which may have made him less sensitive to Crim-X. Mr. McAllister had a long history of violence beginning at a young age. In the years leading up to the murder, he was arrested at least five times for domestic violence. In an interview with my mother, Mr. McAllister showed little remorse for the murder of his wife, telling her that Angela had always known how to push his buttons. After his conviction, he was sentenced to the Dellencourt Correctional Facility for high-risk offenders, serving life in prison with the possibility of parole. Now, Quin's father was almost forty.

The last folder on the tablet contained a picture: Quin, celebrating his fifth birthday. The image appeared to have been taken from his mother's social media page. Its caption read: Happy fifth birthday to the best little boy a mom could ask for. Under the type, Quin sat on his mother's lap, in front of a cake, a silly paper birthday hat on his head. His smile was mischievous, but innocent. He had his mother's eyes.

I closed _The Book of Quin_, concealing it beneath my mattress, and cried for a long time.

** Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gone**

I didn't sleep much that night, not that I expected to. When exhaustion finally overtook me, I dreamed of Quin. I was walking down a long, dark tunnel. A little boy was sitting at the end, his back to me. I could hear him crying. I knew it was Quin. I had to get to him, to protect him. As I drew nearer, he grew older before my eyes. Now, he was _my_ Quin. I touched his shoulder, and he turned around. His face was his own, but his eyes were black and beady, bird-like. He was covered in blood. I tried to scream, but I couldn't.

I was awake, but the dream lingered in my body, leaving me shaken. I looked at the clock. It was almost morning.

I heard a noise at the door.

"Quin?" I whispered. There was no response, but the sound of a persistent scratching.

"Quin?" I said again, louder this time. The scratching continued followed by a plaintive whimper.

I went to the door, opening it cautiously. It was Artos. Across his nose, there was a deep gash. His paws were bloody, and he was shaking and whining. I took him inside the room, wrapping him in a towel. He was inconsolable.

Leaving Artos inside, I softly padded down the hallway toward Quin and Max's room. I stopped when I heard voices.

"Nothing here," a man said, followed by radio static. His footsteps gradually faded to silence.

Moving quickly, I peered inside the small window at the top of the door. Max lay on his side, sleeping peacefully. Quin's bed was neatly made, empty. Panic came like a wave, nearly knocking me off my feet.

I had known from the moment that I saw Artos alone. Quin was gone.

********Author's note: Thanks for checking out Legacy. This is the last update I will post on fanfiction. The entire story of Lex and Quin is now available for purchase on , , and other retailers. Please visit or TheLegacybooks for more info on Legacy. **


	9. Author's Note

**Thanks so much for checking out Legacy! I hope you'll enjoy reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you have enjoyed the first 28 chapters of Legacy, I hope that you will purchase the entire novel. It is now available on , Barnes and and other retailers. The e-book is coming soon. **

**Legacy now has a Facebook page: ** TheLegacybooks**. The 1st, 10th, 50th, and 100th likes will receive a free copy of Legacy! You can also visit for more info on Legacy. **

**Happy reading!**


	10. Bonus Chapters and More From the Author

** Chapter Thirty: A Little Visit **

I woke to an unfamiliar voice. It was soft and kind.

"Alexandra? Can you hear me?"

I tried to nod.

"You're in the infirmary. I'm Maria, your nurse. Would you like some water?"

"Yes," I croaked.

Maria had strong hands. I could feel them on my back, urging me to sit up.

"What happened to me?" I asked, taking a drink. The water felt ice cold on my lips. It still hurt to open my eyes.

Max's voice answered, "You hit the floor like a prize fighter, down for the count."

"Max!" Elana chided him. "You had a panic attack, Lex. You fainted."

A panic attack—that was a first. Instantly, I saw my mother's face. There was a time, long before I was born, before she was psychiatrist, that she had panic attacks. She told me the story in bits and pieces, clearly omitting the _why_. She was in medical school at the time, and it began as nervousness. In the middle of her rounds, she would simply freeze. She started staying home some days. And then, for a while, she _couldn't_ leave at all. I wondered if this panic had been in me all along, lying dormant, a seed just waiting for the right moment to burst open.

I took a breath and opened my eyes. Everything came rushing back at once: Artos bleeding, Quin expelled, Augustus with a bruise on his face.

"We have to find Quin," I said, sitting up with a sudden surge of energy.

Upon hearing Quin's name, Maria walked away hurriedly. Elana and Max exchanged a look.

"We're under lockdown," Elana whispered in my ear, "because of Quin." I could see that she had been crying.

Max added incredulously, "Augustus called him unstable, said that he may even be using Emovere again. Can you believe that?"

"That's ridiculous," I replied, shaking my head. "You _know_ that, right?"

They both nodded at me. Elana pressed a small piece of paper into my hand, closing my fingers around it. "It's from Carrie," she mouthed.

From behind her, Augustus approached. I slipped the paper underneath me.

"You gave us all quite a scare, Ms. Knightley." Augustus made his tone sound fatherly. "Mr. Powers, Ms. Hamilton, may I have a word in private with Alexandra?"

I immediately turned to Elana, my eyes silently pleading with her—_don't leave me alone with him_. My stomach began to flip-flop. For the first time, I realized that I was afraid of Augustus. Now that his face was close to mine, I could see a purplish discoloration on his cheek. It was definitely a bruise.

Elana looked back at me sympathetically. "We'll be right outside, Lex," she said, as they walked away.

Augustus was silent until the door had closed behind them. "Well, Ms. Knightley, you certainly have shaken things up around here." He looked at me with disgust as if I was a bug he was planning to squash with his shoe.

"You can drop the concerned father act now," I said, surprised at my own boldness. "Why is your face bruised?"

Augustus didn't answer, not that I expected him to. He pulled the curtain around my bed shut and sat down on my bedside, inches separating us. I squirmed, feeling like a cornered animal.

"I _am _concerned, Ms. Knightley. _Very concerned_. And I need your help. Something very important to me, _to both of us_, is missing." He held his hand up to my face, his fingers a few inches apart from each other, indicating that whatever was missing was small. Immediately, I knew: my mother's flash drive.

Maria returned then, peeking around the curtain. I exhaled, just realizing that I had been holding my breath.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Augustus. Just checking in on our patient." She looked over at me and gave a tiny wave.

I watched Augustus' change his face like a mime. He smiled warmly and patted my hand. "We're just having a little visit. I won't keep her long."

When she had left, Augustus' hand encircled my wrist and squeezed tight. I grimaced. In his eyes, past the coldness, I saw a glint of pleasure.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, gritting my teeth. "What _really_ happened to Quin?" I spit out the question, trying to ignore the pain.

He kept squeezing, tighter and tighter, until I feared that my wrist would break. Then he let go and walked away.

**Chapter Thirty-One: The Council**

I shook out my hand, watching Augustus' fingerprints slowly fade from my wrist. I felt overwhelmed—my thoughts still jumbled. My mother's flash drive was missing, and Augustus thought I knew where it was. I couldn't help but think it had something to do with Quin. I knew he didn't leave willingly. Right now, he was in the city completely alone. The thought hollowed out my insides. I sat upright, flinging the sheet off my body. I reached beneath me and unfolded Carrie's note.

It read: _You were right. Permanent changes in the frontal lobe and supra. Come by later if you can to discuss._

I left the infirmary without a word to Maria and returned to my room. Artos was sleeping in the bathtub. He whimpered when I rubbed his head. The gash on his nose was covered in a thick scab.

"What would Quin do?" I whispered to Artos. _What would my mother do?_

I knew the answer already, but it frightened me. I had risked everything—my mother and I _both_ had risked everything—for me to get here. But _here_, was nothing like we had imagined. Her flash drive was gone, along with whatever she had so desperately wanted the Resistance to have. Augustus was a fraud. I doubted he even believed in the Resistance cause. And Quin, one of the only people that I trusted, was in danger. Still, I knew if I left here, there would be no more safety. I wished I hadn't surrendered my gun so easily to Quin that first night. The Resistance armory was guarded like a fortress.

I began packing up the things that remained: my mother's book of poetry, my clothing, and Quin's tablet from under my mattress. As I packed, I heard soft and steady thuds outside my door, the sound of boots approaching. Stuffing my backpack under the bed, I went to the window and peered out. One of the armed men from the night of Coit Tower stood outside. He positioned himself facing the door, his eyes briefly connecting with mine. His hardened expression didn't waver. I should have known—Augustus would never let me leave. Whatever it was he believed I was hiding from him, he wanted it back. But more than that, he wanted to punish me.

I opened the door without a word or glance to the armed man and began walking.

"Hey," he called out. "Where are you going?" His voice was annoyed.

I didn't look back. I feigned confidence, keeping my steps brisk and even, my shoulders back, and my eyes pointed ahead. When he caught up to me, he was breathing heavily.

"You're not allowed to walk around unescorted—Augustus' orders."

"Fine," I said, emotionless. "Escort me to the Map Room. I want to meet with the Council."

Augustus may have the final word, but he wasn't the only word around here. Perhaps I could outsmart him in a public forum or, at the least, find an ally. Since the first meeting, I had little interaction with the other Council members. I didn't know what to expect, but anything was better than facing Augustus alone.

Ten minutes later, I was seated at a table. The five remaining faces of the Council stared back at me. Cason sat to my right, his muscled arms taking up space on either side of him. He wore his usual severe expression. Dr. Shana Bell was on my left. Her layers of make-up aged her beyond her years; her perfume hung in the air, thick and cloying. Hiro Chen sat next to her. His thin face was all angles, framed with wire glasses. He was doodling on a computer tablet with his finger, looking bored and out of place. Vera sat next to Augustus, looking up at him as eager as a puppy.

"How can we help you, Ms. Knightley?" Augustus began, his voice dripping with false concern.

"I would like to leave," I said. As soon as I spoke the words, I knew they were momentous. There was no going back. "Am I being held prisoner here?" I glanced toward the door. Outside, two men stood watch.

Dr. Bell shook her head sympathetically. "Of course not, Alexandra. Don't be silly. We don't operate that way. Augustus told us you had grown _close _to Mr. McAllister. This must be a hard time for you. However . . ." She paused and turned toward her colleagues.

Cason finished her sentence, his voice intense and pounding like a hammer. "We cannot just allow you to walk out." He looked at me condescendingly. "You would be captured easily and would likely be persuaded to give away our position. Or killed." He listed the options methodically, as if they were all the same to him.

"Is that the _only_ reason I'm being detained?" I asked.

Augustus turned to me, shooting flares at me with his eyes. I doubted that the Council knew about the existence of the flash drive, much less that it was missing.

No one answered. Augustus' silence was notable.

"You can't force me to stay here," I added. My voice sounded more desperate than I wanted it to.

Looking at Augustus for approval, Vera spoke, "We'd like you to think of this as your new home, at least for a while. We want you to be comfortable here."

Dr. Bell nodded.

I felt defeated, but I tried not to show it.

"What about you, Hiro? Do you have an opinion?" I asked.

Hiro looked surprised, as if speaking was not in his job description. The other Council members appeared visibly uncomfortable.

"Excuse me, Ms. Knightley, but I will direct questions to the Council." Augustus' booming voice leveled the room like a tiny bomb. For a moment, no one spoke.

Without looking up from his computer tablet, Hiro said flatly, "Rule 7.1 should apply here. Members of the Resistance are free to vacate headquarters at any time, but will not be allowed to return."

There was an uncertain silence. I looked at Augustus. He seemed on the verge of eruption.

Cason countered, "That rule applies only to _members_ of the Resistance. Ms. Knightley is a _guest_, not a member."

"Exactly," Augustus added quickly and firmly, trying to put a period at the end of the argument.

"Well . . . her mother has spoken out on our behalf," Dr. Bell offered. "That must be worth _something_."

I saw Vera nodding her head.

"You understand that you would not be allowed to return?" Dr. Bell asked. "Even if your life was in danger?"

"I do," I replied without hesitation, sensing the attitude of the room shifting slightly.

Apparently, Augustus felt it too. He stood, towering over us like an angry giant. "This is absolutely ridiculous. If we allow Ms. Knightley to leave, we will be compromising everything that we've worked for. I will not allow it!" He pounded the table with his fist as he spoke.

Hiro jumped in his seat as his tablet bounced from his hands. Vera cowered. Augustus was accustomed to getting his way. I sensed that his tightly wound grip on his perfectly crafted image was loosening.

"Augustus," Dr. Bell's voice was tentative as if she was speaking to a wild animal. "You seem upset."

That was an understatement. Augustus returned to his seat, not speaking. It seemed to require all of his energy to sit quietly.

Dr. Bell glanced at him cautiously before speaking. "We should vote."

** Chapter Thirty-Two: A Muffin**

The vote was 2-3. I lost. Just before Vera cast the deciding vote, Augustus leaned over to her and whispered in her ear. Though she maintained a thin, nervous smile, the rest of her face contorted in fear. Immediately after it was settled, I watched Augustus' charm return, as easily as if he had shed one skin for another.

"Looks like we'll have the pleasure of your company a bit longer, Ms. Knightley," he said, before he slithered away.

As I was being escorted back to my room, I saw Elana peering at me from behind a wall. Worry had paled her face. Our eyes connected, and I mustered a tiny smile.

Later, she and Max came to my room. I heard them asking the guard if they could visit with me. I peered out the window in time to see Elana sweep her auburn hair from her shoulder and smile at the guard. He was transfixed.

"I just wanted to take her a muffin." Elana shrugged, her voice unassuming. "She hasn't eaten all day." She held up a bag for him to inspect.

"Five minutes," the guard answered, his voice hard and flat.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Elana embraced me.

"Lex, what happened? Where did you go?"

"I want to leave," I said. The finality of the words cut like a knife.

"I have to find Quin." I lowered my voice. "Augustus is lying about what happened to him." I hoped they would believe me.

Max and Elana looked at each other, both of their faces a mixture of emotions.

Max started to speak. "Lex, we—"

"Please don't say that Augustus doesn't lie," I interrupted.

Max leaned in close to me. He whispered, "We believe you. Elana told me about Artos. Quin would never leave him behind willingly."

"Time's up," the guard's cold voice sliced through the room.

I rolled my eyes. "That was a fast five minutes."

The guard responded with a dismissive grunt.

Before they left, Elana opened the bag and handed me a muffin. "I thought you might be hungry," she said, her eyes conveying more than her words.

I took a bite of the muffin, peeling back the paper as I ate. Written on the wrapper were four words: _We're coming with you._

**Chapter Thirty-Three: Step One**

I lay on my bed, my eyes fixed on the white ceiling. There were exactly 112 tiles. I had counted them again and again. Time seemed to crawl, each second announcing itself with a loud tock from the clock on the wall. With each tick, I thought of Quin. I had a plan. Now I just had to wait.

At 5 p.m., I asked the guard to escort me to the laboratory. Carrie sat inside, her head down, her focus intense. She jumped when the guard banged on the door.

"You asked to see me," I said casually, hoping that Carrie would catch on.

She blinked a few times before answering. "I did," she said. Her voice tilted up at the end, almost a question. "Of course, I did." She repeated, speaking more confidently this time.

The guard positioned himself on one of the laboratory stools near us. He already seemed bored, tapping his fingers on the counter and examining an empty beaker.

"This way." Carrie gestured me over to the computer.

She opened a file entitled _Brain Images_. On the screen were pictures of at least 50 brains, each labeled with a name.

"We've been able to dissect and compare the brains of long-time Guardian Force officers and new recruits," Carrie explained.

She pulled up a dual screen with two brains opposite each other. One was labeled _Elliot Barnes_—I couldn't seem to escape him. The other belonged to a Brady Johnston.

Carrie pointed to Elliot's brain, a tight graying mass of coils. I felt a deep pang of regret. It was because of me that Elliot had been laid on a table, cut open, and studied like a lab rat.

"Elliot was a member of the Guardian Force for over three years. As I mentioned last time, his blood contained near-toxic levels of Emovere. His brain showed marked changes that appear to have been permanent, including a shrinking of the frontal lobe and supramarginal gyrus."

She pointed to the other brain, belonging to Brady Johnston. "Compare that to _this_ brain. Brady was a new recruit. His brain has all the characteristics of a healthy eighteen-year-old. We've seen similar patterns in our other subjects, and we're fairly confident that we can attribute these changes to high levels of Emovere and Substance X."

I felt nauseous. "Do you know when the effects become permanent?" I asked, thinking of Quin. I wasn't sure if he had received Substance X, but he had taken Emovere for at least two years.

Carrie shook her head. "We're not certain. It appears that some brains are less vulnerable to the long-term effects. One might call them resilient."

"My mother always said that some patients had a resistance to Emovere."

Carrie beamed with pride. "Yes, I read your mother's article—brilliant work."

I saw Carrie cast a surreptitious glance toward the guard. He was spinning side to side on the laboratory stool, his mind elsewhere.

"There's one more thing," Carrie said quietly. She reached over and turned on a large projector, casting the dual images of the brains onto a screen. The projector's motor hummed loudly, its drone completely covering our voices.

Carrie leaned in closer to me and continued. "The night you arrived here, Augustus asked me to perform an analysis on the bullet taken from Elliot's body. I was able to determine that it came from a weapon outside of our armory. I think he knew all along that Quin was lying—that you had shot Elliot. I thought you should know."

She flipped off the projector as the guard approached. "Time to go," he said.

As we walked toward the door, I knew it was now or never. Casually, I bumped the laboratory table with my hip, sending two large beakers filled with liquid tumbling to the floor. They broke on impact, glass scattering at our feet.

Carrie's mouth hung open for a moment.

"I'm so sorry," I said to her. "I'm still feeling a bit woozy from this morning."

"Say no more," she said, giving my arm a sympathetic pat. "Sit here." She pointed to one of the nearby stools. Carrie disappeared for a moment behind another door, retrieving a broom and dustpan.

"Can I get a little help with this?" She asked the guard, as she gathered the glass with the broom.

I waited for the right moment. When both of their heads were concealed below the table, I quickly pocketed a small bottle of ether. It was a common laboratory chemical I had seen my mother use many times. She had always warned me to handle it cautiously. It was highly flammable and had the properties of a sedative.

As Carrie walked me to the door, I apologized again, turning back to examine the now-spotless floor.

With a maternal smile, Carrie's voice reassured me, "Like it never happened."

**Chapter Thirty-Four: A Bad Good-bye**

A few minutes after 7 p.m., just as it had the last five evenings, Resistance headquarters went dark. I heard the guard shuffling nervously outside my room, as if expecting the black out.

"I'm okay," I told him, trying to make my voice sound steady. Inside, my nerves were pinging and pinballing, rapid-fire, through me.

A short time later, I heard him settle back in his chair, just outside the door. Cat-like, I padded across the floor, holding my breath. I knew I had to move quickly and confidently. If I hesitated, it would be over—and worse, Quin would be that much farther from me, almost unreachable.

In my mind, I began a slow count down. On _one_, I opened the door with my foot, reaching my hand around to the guard's face. He cried out in surprise, grasping for my hand, but only for a moment. The ether was already taking its effect. I held the cloth against his mouth for at least thirty seconds to be sure, though it seemed as if a brief eternity passed. Finally, I released him. He slumped limp and unmoving.

Calling softly to Artos, I left the room, backpack in hand. I heard Artos' nails clicking behind me as he followed. It was pitch black, but I couldn't risk using my flashlight. I went by feel, rounding the corner to Elana's room where I slipped a cryptic note under the door.

From there, I headed down the tunnel with Artos. We were both running now. With each step, I thought only of Quin.

For him, leaving here was probably just one of many bad good-byes. I imagined that he had grown accustomed to disappointment, recognizing it like an old friend. In fact, he probably expected it, outsmarted it by pushing everyone away first. But for some reason, Quin had let me in, and I realized now, from the inside, that his walls weren't really as they appeared. Their substance was paper-thin parchment that could be blown down by a mere breath.

Quin was somewhere, _could have been anywhere_, in this abandoned city, but I knew exactly where to find him.

** Chapter Thirty-Five: Coit Tower, Revisited**

I bounded up the spiraling stairs two at a time, Artos following closely behind me. When I reached the entrance to the observation deck, I took a breath, my heart suspended in a brief limbo before slowly opening the door. _Please_, I asked silently to no one in particular.

Quin sat directly opposite with his gun pointed at the door. His eyes looked frightened, but hopeful. On his face, near his temple, I could see a cut and a yellowing bruise. He lowered his weapon. Before either of us could speak, Artos bounded through the door toward Quin, licking his face uncontrollably.

"I missed you too, Artos," Quin said, chuckling and fending off Artos' tongue.

Quin stood, turning his eyes to mine. Relief washed over me in waves. I thought I might cry, but I didn't. I looked only at Quin. His pull was like a magnet. Before my mind had even decided to walk toward him, my feet began moving. I felt his arms around me. He lowered his face, burying it in my shoulder. His warm breath tickled my neck. In a word, Quin felt like home.

"Lex." He pronounced my name deliberately as if saying it for the first time. He pulled away slightly, but kept his eyes on mine. "You found me."

"_And_ Artos," I added proudly, omitting the fact that Artos had done most of the finding. "Did you think that I wouldn't?"

Quin didn't respond. He dropped to one knee, and Artos eagerly ran over to him. From under Artos' collar, Quin removed a small object. He held it up for me. It was my mother's flash drive. I gasped in surprise.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. McAllister." I narrowed my eyes at him in pretend anger.

Quin grinned. "I know," he said. "I guess I should start by saying that you were right."

"That's always a good place to start," I teased.

Quin laughed, and I noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, making his face seem boyish, mischievous. When he laughed, I could see five-year-old Quin looking back at me.

"Augustus lied to me about a lot of things. He's been lying to everyone. After I left you that night, I went to see him. I wanted to talk to him about you."

"About _me_?" I said, taken aback.

"I wanted to tell him that I was done . . . avoiding you." Inside, my heart fluttered as if about to take flight. I was thinking of our kiss. Quin's lips turned up at the corners in a shy smile, hinting that his thoughts were the same.

"When I got to his office, I heard him talking to someone on a cell phone, the emergency one that no one is supposed to use without his permission. He was talking about _this_." Quin held up the flash drive. "He was going to sell it."

"_Sell_ it?" I had suspected that Augustus was manipulative—a con artist, an opportunist—but I was shocked by his willingness to betray everyone who trusted him. I knew his disloyalty must have been a bitter shock to Quin.

"To who?" I wondered aloud.

Quin's face darkened. "This is going to sound crazy, but I think he was talking to General Ryker."

Quin paused, allowing the alarm to settle from my face.

"Do you know what's on it?" I asked.

"No," Quin replied, "but it must be something really important if the Guardians want it so badly." I hid my surprise. I had been sure that Quin knew the contents of the flash drive.

Quin continued, "I confronted Augustus. At first, he tried to deny it—to turn it around on me. He said I wasn't myself because of you. He even told me he thought I was using Emovere or something. When I threatened to discuss it with the Council, he hit me." Quin touched the bruise on his temple. It was dark purple in the center, bordered by an ugly yellow. Shaking his head, he added, "I never thought he would deliberately hurt me. I guess that must sound stupid to you."

"Quin, you're not stupid." I reached up and brushed the side of his face gently with my hand. He turned toward my touch. "You looked up to him. He abused your trust."

Quin sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, the story of my life," he muttered. I imagined that he was thinking of his father.

"So how did you get the flash drive?"

"Well . . . I hit him back." Quin and I shared a satisfied smiled. It gave me more than a small bit of pleasure to imagine Quin's fist connecting with its target.

"Augustus fell and dropped the flash drive. I hit him again, but he kept coming at me. He wasn't going to let me leave that room, Lex." Quin's voice was somber but distant, as if he was reliving a nightmare, scene by scene. For a moment, I tried to imagine the white, hot terror of realizing that someone you trusted was trying to kill you.

"Then Artos got him by the leg and wouldn't let go." Artos pranced at Quin's feet as if celebrating his victory. "So Augustus reached for the lamp on his desk. He knocked it over and cut us with some of the broken glass." Quin looked down to examine the cut on Artos' nose. His wound now completely forgotten, Artos wagged his tail, carefree.

"After that, I ran into the tunnels. I could hear Augustus behind me. I slipped this into Artos' collar—there's a hole, where the fabric is worn from him chewing on it—and I told him to find you. I didn't think I would get away."

We sat in silence, Quin's words sinking into my mind like heavy stones. I shook off a shiver, imagining Quin, bleeding and afraid, sending Artos away from him. I knew then that Quin was brave, the kind of bravery that is only born in a dark place.

Quin spoke first. "I didn't know if you would . . . I mean, I hoped that you would . . ." Quin's voice trailed off, but his eyes finished the sentence for him. He looked down, shuffling his feet nervously.

I looked back at him, disbelieving. After everything that had happened, Quin thought I wouldn't try to find him, that what I knew about him would somehow change the way I felt.

"I care about you, Quin. That hasn't changed—no matter what it says in that stupid file."

He stepped back from me. "Why?" he demanded. "Why do you care about me?"

I smiled. "Isn't that supposed to be my question?"

"I'm beginning to like it," Quin countered. "So?"

I couldn't answer. I might have said I felt safe with him, but that wasn't entirely true. When Quin touched me, it was like heat buzzing in my brain, a cold razor's edge pressed to my skin. It was the kind of feeling I feared, but wanted all at the same time. And how could I explain that to someone, most of all to Quin?

"Why do _you_ like _me_?" I asked. I knew it wasn't fair, but surprisingly, Quin didn't protest my question. He turned away from me, leaning out against the observation deck, and answered.

"When I'm with you, everything feels different. Not like the past didn't happen, which is something I wanted for a long time. But like it _happened_, and it's okay that it did."

It was a perfect answer.

"Quin, it _is_ okay. That file is not what you said it was. It's not _everything_, and it's certainly not the _Book of Quin_. It's just a few chapters in the story."

"_Important_ chapters," he said, unconvinced.

"Fine . . . important ones," I conceded.

I walked over to the railing and stood next to him, both of us looking out into the blackness of the city. "But there are a lot of chapters missing. That file is not Artos or your mother's book of poetry or Max and Elana or . . ." I wanted to say me, but I stopped myself.

Quin didn't reply. His silence felt like disagreement. Frustrated, I sighed and began to walk away, but Quin stopped me, placing a firm hand on my forearm.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" he asked softly.

Before I could answer, his lips were on mine.

*****Author's Note: Legacy is now available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other retailers. For a chance to win a free copy of the book and for updates on Legacy, and the sequel, Prophecy, please follow author, Ellery Kane on . **


	11. Bonus Chapters (part two)

**Chapter Thirty-Six: Practice**

Kissing Quin was like standing on the edge of a soaring precipice, watching pebbles roll and plummet to their death below, only blue sky between me and the ground. Falling felt inevitable, a welcome but fatal exhilaration.

I was most aware of his hands. One was tangled in my hair, holding my head tightly. The other travelled urgently around my waist and up my spine. Quin's hands seemed to have their own life, and it was one of pressing need, eliminating any separation between our bodies. For the first time in my life, I wondered if it was possible to die of bliss. I could understand why Max's mother had become addicted to Euphoractamine. If I could have bottled _this_, whatever _this_ feeling was, I would have ached for it in its absence.

Quin brushed his lips against my cheek and buried his face in my hair.

"Practice," he teased.

I laughed, and I could feel his smile against my neck. Quin released me, his face suddenly shy. My body felt instantly cold in the space between us.

"So what now, Ms. Knightley?" Quin's voice was light and playful.

"Well, you're not the only one with a story to tell," I replied. "Your leaving caused quite a stir."

"I would imagine," he said, grinning.

I told Quin about everything that had happened since I had awakened to find him gone—Augustus' early morning meeting and lies to the Resistance, my encounter with the Council, and my escape. I conveniently omitted my panic attack. In part, because I knew Quin would shoulder the blame, and I didn't want him to have anything else to hold over himself. The other part was me. I didn't want to admit I had lost control, that my fear had temporarily taken my body as a helpless hostage.

"There's one more thing," I added. "Max and Elana are coming too. They're meeting us at the Golden Gate Bridge at sunrise."

Quin didn't seem surprised, his thoughts focused elsewhere. "And where exactly are we going?" He looked at me, uncertainly.

"There's only one place left to go." I felt a tug of longing, before I even said it. "Home."

Quin didn't respond, but I watched his face change. He was slowly rebuilding his walls.

"My mother will know what to do," I said, lending my voice more confidence than I felt.

Quin sat down, leaning up against the wall. He patted Artos' head absentmindedly. "Okay," he said, but I knew that it wasn't.

I sat down next to him. "What's wrong?" I asked, touching his shoulder.

He shrugged off my hand and looked straight ahead, avoiding my eyes. His face was as impenetrable as steel.

"What happened to my mom was my fault." He said it evenly as if it was a fact he had learned in school—one not open for debate. "Your mom knows that. How can I even _look_ at her?"

"Quin, your _father_ murdered your mother. You were only six. How can that _possibly_ be your fault?"

"I knew what my dad was like," Quin began. "I had seen him hit her before, throw her around like a rag doll. That day, she told me to watch Colton and play on the floor close to her. I didn't listen. I _never_ listened. And now, the things I've done . . . I'm just like him." Quin's voice cracked. He lowered his head, resting it between his knees. I put my hand on his back, rubbing it gently.

"Don't try to make me feel better, Lex," his voice the pained growl of a wounded animal.

I took my hand away and said nothing for a long time. Artos settled in the space between us, laying his head on my lap. I watched Quin's shoulders move up and down. Though he made no sound and I couldn't see his face, I knew he was crying. Words from his Guardian file ran through my head: _The minors were unharmed._ What happened to Quin didn't leave a visible scar. It burned from the inside.

I spoke softly, fingering the locket around my neck, "Sometimes, I think it was my fault that my dad left." I had never said it aloud before, but I couldn't remember a time I hadn't thought it. "He just disappeared, like my mom and I never existed. It's hard to believe he ever _really_ loved me."

After I finished, Quin took a breath and looked up. His face was wet, his eyes red. "How could he _not_?" he asked.

** Chapter Thirty-Seven: A Test**

The sun was newly born, just beginning its slow ascent over the horizon. It was a clear day, the Golden Gate's burnt-red cables cutting through the pinkish blue of morning. Gulls screamed at us from overhead, and I shivered, though the air was warm. Their cries sounded like a warning. Quin stood outside the tollbooth, out of view of a nearby camera, pacing nervously, while Artos chased mice in and out of the booths.

"Where are they?" he asked, a discernible edge in his voice. "We don't have long before there's another helicopter patrol."

As Quin spoke, I heard the rumble of an engine and saw two oversized military vehicles approaching the bridge from San Francisco. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could utter a sound, Quin pulled me inside the tollbooth and down to the ground. Artos bounded inside after us, his teeth clamped on the tail of a portly rat. Quin tapped Artos' head, and he dropped his catch. I watched as it scuttled across the floor and out of the door.

"Quiet," Quin instructed calmly. I was comforted by his arms around me. They were familiar to me now. I had spent the night like this memorizing the crook of his elbow, the three freckles on his forearm, the inked edges of his Guardian tattoo. I could feel his breathing, slow and controlled.

From the floor of the booth, we could see nothing. But after a minute or so, the engine noise roared past us and stopped abruptly. Doors slammed, and I heard the sound of boots marching. Then a shrill voice cut the air like the blade of an axe.

"Guardian Recruits, take your assigned positions."

There was more marching, followed by the _click-clacking_ of metal against metal. Minutes passed as I watched the second hand on Quin's wristwatch make several rounds.

Quin whispered, "It's a test."

I had to look. I couldn't help it. I loosened myself from Quin's grasp and raised my head slightly. He didn't protest, but pulled me back to him when I gasped.

I had seen at least ten recruits arranged in a line atop the bridge's outer railing. They wore harnesses around their ankles attached to bungee cords. Their hands were bound with thick rope behind their backs. On the bridge, overseeing them was a small but ferocious man, balding with a thick beard.

"Guardian Recruit Legacy 152, jump!"

"Guardian Recruit Greenhorn 341, jump!"

"Guardian Recruit Greenhorn 533, jump!"

One by one, I imagined the recruits jumping without a sound from the bridge, yo-yoing above the ocean some two hundred feet below.

"Guardian Recruit, Greenhorn 558, jump!"

Ten seconds later, the voice spoke again, "Greenhorn 558, do you have a problem following instructions?"

"No, sir," a man's voice replied with a surprising, subtle crackling of fear. I had assumed the Guardian recruits were given Emovere prior to this _test_, which would explain their post-jump silence.

"Good. Then you have exactly five seconds to jump. Count it down for me, Greenhorn."

Quin mouthed a name against my ear. "Ryker."

"Five." The jumper's voice feigned confidence. Perhaps he was thinking he could muster the courage after all.

"Four." There was a hint of doubt. I wondered if he was looking down into the frigid water below.

"Thr-ee." His voice shook slightly, breaking in the middle of the word.

"Two." Now he was whispering. He wasn't going to make the jump, and he knew it.

"One." There was complete silence. Maybe I had been wrong.

For the next five minutes, I heard constant movement outside. There were muted, purposeful voices. Among them was neither General Ryker nor the jumper.

"What happens now?" I whispered to Quin.

"There's a boat waiting for them. Someone unties and unclips them, and a doctor takes their vital signs. It's supposed to tell them how well the Emovere is working."

Quin had obviously done this before, probably many times. I shuddered, imagining him stepping off the bridge into nothing.

After several slamming doors, the engines roared to life again, but remained idling.

"General Ryker, I'm sorry, sir. Please, sir." It was the jumper's voice, Greenhorn 558.

Once again, I lifted my head, peering out at them. General Ryker was conferencing with another man, purposefully ignoring his recruit. Though the jumper was too far away for me to see his expression, his shoulders were slumped and his head lowered. In silence, General Ryker walked over to Greenhorn 558. He calmly swung his feet over the ledge so that he was standing alongside him.

"Greenhorn 558, this is your third failure to complete the jump test. You are dismissed from the Guardian Force." There was a harsh finality in his voice.

I tapped Quin, urging him to look, but he shook his head. I knew whatever was coming was bad.

General Ryker turned away for a moment. I hoped he would unclip the jumper, untie his hands, and help him climb back over the railing. But he didn't. Instead, with all of his strength, he pushed Greenhorn 558 from the bridge. I imagined that he bounced up and down, up and down, up and down, until he was hanging like a spider from a thread.

General Ryker effortlessly scaled the railing and returned to his vehicle, moving with a quiet satisfaction. Once inside the passenger seat, he reached his arm out the window, giving the roof several deliberate taps, signaling their departure.

I sat back down in the booth, exhaling. _How long had I been holding my breath?_ Quin didn't speak. He didn't have to. I knew that, like me, he was imagining Greenhorn 558, swinging below us, his hands useless, his eyes likely fixed on the water in a state of despair, knowing better than to hope for a rescue that would never come.

****Legacy is now available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other retailers. Win a free copy of Legacy by entering the giveaway on , running until November 10!**


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